


Deaton's Dream Beans

by thenerdnextdoor



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bookstore, Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Annoyed Derek Hale, Attempt at Humor, Cute Liam Dunbar, Derek Hale & Scott McCall Friendship, Derek Hale & Theo Raeken Friendship, Derek Hale is Bad at Feelings, Idiots in Love, Isaac Lahey Being an Asshole, Jackson Whittemore Being an Asshole, M/M, Not literally, POV Derek, Protective Derek, Scott McCall (Teen Wolf) Being an Idiot, Scott and Liam are puppies, Scott is Liam's mentor, Sheriff Stilinski's Name is Noah, Slow Build Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski, Stiles Stilinski Being an Idiot, Vernon Boyd & Derek Hale Friendship, also attempt at fluff, but the fluff isn't often, they're adorable
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-22
Updated: 2021-02-04
Packaged: 2021-03-10 00:09:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 64,702
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27674512
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thenerdnextdoor/pseuds/thenerdnextdoor
Summary: "If you ever betray us and go into Argent's just because it's all dark and moody like you, I hope you know that not even your eyebrows will stop me from annihilating you." / In which Derek owns a bookstore, Stiles works at a coffee shop, Isaac doesn't get paid as much as he thinks he should, and Derek has a lot of time for Vernon Boyd. Age-appropriate!Sterek
Relationships: Allison Argent/Isaac Lahey, Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski, Ethan/Jackson Whittemore, Liam Dunbar/Theo Raeken, Vernon Boyd/Erica Reyes
Comments: 60
Kudos: 240





	1. Step One: A is for Actors

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first fanfic posted to this site, so I'm gonna be slightly clunky with the processes.. but you can find this fic (and others) on fan fiction.net under the same name! I just thought I'd post here too because there seems to be a wider audience over here for this kind of thing.

Derek Hale has a lot of time for Vernon Boyd. He thinks Vernon Boyd might be the one person on the planet that Derek can honestly - albeit uncomfortably - admit that he genuinely likes. 

When Derek first saw Boyd’s name on one of the thirty-odd applications he’d received in answer to the ad he’d posted, it had made no impression on him. None of them had, really. So he’d done the _dumbest thing_ and invited them all for an interview and, _jesus_ , did he regret that as soon as the first interviewee opened the door and caught the small bell hanging in the doorway. Derek took one look at the beaming smile on the girl’s face and wondered how rude it would be to abruptly _cancel_ every single interview he’d arranged, or if he’d be better off just faking his own death and fleeing the country. Suddenly the fact that he couldn’t restock the shelves or go out for lunch or go to the toilet or have any semblance of a social life due to being the one and only staff member in the bookstore didn’t seem all that troublesome, and he figured he didn’t need a social life anyway because, let’s face it, he wasn’t an ideal candidate for anyone’s version of a friend.

His head had been propped on his fist, his elbow leaning on the counter, when the door opened for the eighteenth time and the bell tinkled mockingly and he closed his eyes and took a calming breath in preparation for the standard _oh, wow, this place is so quaint and wholesome!_ or some other variation of it that every other interviewee had felt compelled to gush upon entry. But it didn’t come. There _had_ been a couple of shy interviewees who seemed to choke on some words until Derek lost patience and took charge, so he hadn’t been completely surprised by the silence that followed the soft click of the door closing again. In fact, he took advantage of it as it lingered on for a few moments, using the blissfully empty seconds to prepare himself for more uncomfortable squirming as the interviewee stumbled their way through completely conspicuous grovelling in the hopes that Derek would be flattered into a job offer.

Finally, he had stood up straight and braced his free hand on the edge of the counter while the other stayed splayed across the open book on the chipped wooden surface - he was long past the point of slotting in a bookmark and placing the book to the side until the interview was done. His eyes found Boyd’s and they watched each other silently for a beat, each sizing the other up. The young man - in his early twenties, if Derek remembered right - was tall and well-built, wearing a dark top with a black leather jacket, dark jeans, and black boots. There was something strong in the set of his brows, something calm in his dark eyes, something subdued in the line of his mouth, and Derek frowned lightly at the way his shoulders relaxed in response, his chin lifting curiously.

“Vernon Boyd?” he checked.

“Just Boyd,” Boyd had replied. His voice was flat - not bored or rude, just simple and understated.

“What made you apply for the position?” Derek asked. He’d given up on small talk to ease into the interview process after the second candidate - not that he’d really given it much of a go in the first place.

Boyd tucked a hand into the pocket of his jeans. “I’m studying English Literature and I need the cash.”

Derek tilted his head in a _fair enough_ sort of way. “You saw the offered hours?” Boyd nodded in response. Derek was beginning to wonder if he was dreaming. “When could you start?”

“As soon as you need me,” Boyd answered simply, shrugging a shoulder.

Derek had never made such a swift and painless decision as that one. “Alright. Tomorrow. 9am.”

Boyd gave him a firm nod, the corner of his mouth pulling into his cheek, and clasped Derek’s hand for a firm shake when he offered it. As soon as Boyd left the store, Derek had pulled his laptop across the counter and sent out an email to the remaining seven interviewees to explain that the position had been filled. Boyd showed up at 8.55am the next day, carrying a takeaway cup of coffee in each hand, and Derek might have swooned if he was the type of person inclined to behave in such a way.

Over the year and a half that Boyd has worked for Derek, he has increased the younger’s hours to basically full-time, though assuring Boyd he could do his college work or play solitaire all day for all Derek cared, as long as he was available to the customers who were intent on taking full advantage of their help. Derek has found a new kind of pleasure in being able to leave the store in Boyd’s hands for half an hour, or an afternoon, or an entire day, just so he can go out for a walk or a drive or sit in his apartment in his sweats and a tank top without feeling guilty about missing out on sales. Boyd seems to be a little more adept at the whole customer-service-schtick than Derek is, and slightly less intimidating than Derek, too, and Derek has developed a comfortable - if a little surprising - level of trust in the younger man.

Besides, Boyd is _like_ Derek. He doesn’t mind that Derek doesn’t want to chat about inane things, or that Derek prefers to communicate via facial expressions, or that Derek is perfectly comfortable to let an entire morning go past with just a few grunted words, if any. In fact, Boyd seems to actually _share_ in these traits, and the two of them have managed to make their relationship the easiest, least demanding, most comfortable back-and-forth that Derek has possibly _ever_ had with _anyone_. He’s pretty sure that he started sleeping easier as soon as Boyd signed the employee contract Derek made up out of sheer guesswork. He’s never explicitly said any of this to Boyd, but he thinks the ripped piece of paper with a generous figure scribbled onto it and the firm hand he clasped on Boyd’s shoulder for a moment had told the younger man all he needed to know about how much Derek valued his work and, okay, yes, fine, his _company._

So, yeah, Derek Hale has a lot of time for Vernon Boyd.

Which is the only reason why, when he realises it’s 1.13pm in the afternoon and he hasn’t heard the bell tinkle to signal Boyd’s departure for the lunch-run, and he spots Boyd hunched over the counter with a concentrated frown on his face as he glares at the sheets of paper scattered across the surface, Derek snatches his leather jacket from the coat rack behind the counter and walks silently to the door, patting his back pocket to make sure his wallet is tucked safely in his jeans.

“Deaton’s place,” Boyd’s voice says from the counter. “It’s further away, but the paninis are better.”

Derek resists the urge to roll his eyes - the most animated he’s ever seen Boyd was in a situation similar to this, when he’d decided to go to a nearby coffee shop to get their lunch, and his employee had unwrapped his panini and instantly lifted his head to level Derek with the most unimpressed glare Derek had ever seen before he’d even taken a single bite. Derek would never admit it, but he had silently agreed with the implied _this isn’t even half as good as Deaton’s paninis, and your laziness has ruined my lunch_ from Boyd. The younger man had taken it upon himself to do the lunch-run basically every day, riding the bus over to his favoured coffee shop and bringing the panini bags and two coffee cups all the way back to the bookstore for him and Derek to enjoy in companionable silence, and he never once complained and never once brought Derek anything that wasn’t delicious or perfectly balanced for his taste buds.

Derek Hale has a lot of time for Vernon Boyd, and Boyd is clearly neck-deep in college work, and that is the _only_ reason why Derek gets in his Camaro, retrieves his sunglasses from the inner pocket of his jacket to block out the sun, and drives fifteen minutes across town to find a space near the coffee shop that his employee holds in such high regards.

However, Derek’s compliance wavers when he peers out of his window up at the board naming the coffee shop _Deaton’s Dream Beans_ \- because, seriously? _Dream beans?_ \- and it practically downright shatters when he walks into the place, slipping his sunglasses off his face and hooking one of the legs over the collar of his Henley, and his eyes quickly skim over the sheer multitude of _bodies_ mulling around.

The coffee shop is a comfortable size, with an open space with couches at the entrance and a counter with stools lined up against the large window. Then the walkspace narrows where the main counter emerges from the right-hand wall, with a few two-seater tables along the left wall, before it opens up again into a larger, deeper space up the back of the shop. The furniture is all mismatched and minimalistic, with local artwork lining the walls and plants dotted around the floor and multiple surfaces. In fact, there’s a long shelf along the left wall that has nothing but plant after plant after plant, long and drooping and tall and twirling to the point that it’s almost overwhelming the wooden panels. The counter itself is probably half the length of the shop, the side closest to the door introducing a few different muffins and cakes, before showcasing some knick-knacks available for purchase from local craftspeople, and then there’s fresh sandwiches, a selection of chips and sweets, some juices, more craft pieces for sale, and finally the till area. Behind the counter, the entire wall is taken up by a multitude of machines for making coffee and soup and subs and paninis, and they gleam enticingly as Derek’s eyes slide over them all.

What he doesn’t see, however, is anyone manning any of the stations behind the counter or the till itself. There are a decent number of customers lounging on the couches and stools, and a couple on the two-seater tables beside the counter, but Derek’s scowl is drawn to the other side of the counter, towards the open back of the shop, where there appears to be a small crowd gathered. He ignores the soft, calm bass thudding throughout the shop to try and focus in on whatever’s being said down at the gathering of people, because it seems as though their attention is centred on two young men - one leaning against the far-end of the counter, the other sat on the top of the backboard of a cushioned bench, his feet planted right where customers should be sitting.

“-have something that they’ll never have,” the young man leaning on the counter is saying in a voice so compassionate and earnest it instantly triggers Derek’s _I want to be the furthest away from this that I can possibly be_ instincts.

But he walks closer to them - because he’s realised the two young men have maroon aprons tied around their necks and waists, and they’re the only staff members he can see, and he needs to order lunch for himself and Boyd because he has a lot of time for Boyd and the guy deserves lunch from his favourite place for being the best investment Derek’s ever made. The guy leaning on the counter has a head of neatly-styled brown hair and tanned skin, broad shoulders and muscled arms fitted inside a long-sleeved tee, his back facing Derek. The other guy, perched to the right of his colleague, has dark hair much more ruffled and untamed than the other’s, his skin pale and smooth with a few moles dotted randomly like someone’s flicked a paintbrush at him, brown eyes narrowed seriously, eyebrows twisting upwards, a nearby light catching the edge of his cheekbone and glinting on his tongue when it swipes across his pink lips. His body is leaner than his colleague’s, but what Derek can see of his forearms and hands exposed by his rolled-up sleeves look strong and capable, if a little twitchy.

“Loyalty,” the pale guy proclaims, continuing whatever speech the tanned one was in the middle of. His voice is low and a little rough, and every feature of his face seems to assist in the making and delivering of the words - so much so that Derek can’t decide which feature to focus on. “Friendship. _Family_.” 

Derek’s eyebrows scrunch with confusion at the somber atmosphere around the crowd, the grim enthusiasm in the young men’s voices. The more time he spends in this place with the ridiculous name and the overabundance of customers and the bizarre behaviour of the staff, the more he begins to doubt that Boyd did actually mean this coffee shop. The thought of Boyd frequenting a place called _Deaton’s Dream Beans_ is enough to turn Derek’s world upside down as it is, never mind whatever the hell’s going on inside the place.

“Argent is all about the numbers. All he cares about is making enough money in a day to keep his family’s reputation afloat. _Deaton’s_ is more than that,” the tanned guy says.

“You want a place to satisfy your daily caffeine fix, somewhere to buy food with enough calories to keep your body goin’ until your next meal,” the pale one continues, and Derek gets the impression that the two of them perhaps work with the same brain, their transitions are so seamless, “then you can go to Argent.”

“But if you want something _more_ , something better,” the tanned one says, leaning forward off the edge of the counter as his voice smoothly adopts an almost inspirational tone, “something that doesn’t just fulfill a basic need, but actually offers _heart_ and _joy_ and leaves you with a warmth that settles so deep in your bones it becomes a _part of you_ -”

“Then you come to _Deaton’s_ ,” the pale guy finishes, with the air of a leader delivering something profoundly invigorating to an army of warriors facing down an impossible threat. He sniffs and sits up straight on the bench, lightly punching a fist into his hand as his lips purse emotionally. “You come to _Deaton’s Dream Beans_ ,” he says, his voice cracking.

Derek is _beyond_ baffled, at this point. And he doesn’t care to find out what the _hell_ the idiots are talking about. But he is also a little concerned that his stomach is going to growl with hunger - because the smell of the two paninis Boyd brings into the bookstore is mouthwatering enough, never mind actually standing in the coffee shop utterly _encompassed_ by the scent - and all he can do is stand there until one of the guys notices him (whatever speech they’re in the middle of is _definitely_ ridiculous, but Derek had _tried_ to clear his throat to get their attention and hadn’t been able to make a sound, weirdly, or move at all, to be honest, except to look a little closer at the pale one).

Someone in the crowd scoffs and a chair scrapes across the floor as a young blonde woman pushes to her feet, rolling her eyes. Derek’s relief when he spots the maroon apron on her as she slips between the crowd towards the counter is surely palpable. 

“Why are you idiots wasting a speech on people you are literally _paying_ to be here?” she snarks, shoving the tanned employee to the side so she can lift the wooden flap to go behind the counter.

Derek sees the tanned guy’s face now, all crooked jaw and warm eyes and dark eyebrows that are crumpled in something that might be betrayal as he watches the blonde. The pale employee’s mouth opens and closes, brows furrowed confusedly, eyes narrowed and searching the empty space at his feet as if it’ll give him a good comeback. 

“Wait, people are getting paid?” a tall, curly-headed young man asks with a soft frown, eyeing the tanned employee. “Am _I_ getting paid?”

The tanned employee turns to the pale one with a lost expression, and the latter’s face slackens with irritation. “You get $13 an hour, Isaac,” he says pointedly. 

Isaac narrows his eyes, glancing between the two as he crosses his arms. “This is my day off.”

“Yeah, and you’re a vital member of the resistance, alright?” the pale employee explodes quietly, an arm flailing emphatically. “What did I _just_ say about loyalty? Demanding payment for the defense of your own workplace doesn’t exactly convey loyalty, Isaac. Where’s your patriotism? Your sense of duty?”

“In my wallet,” Isaac replies easily. “Where’s yours?”

“In your- _what_ \- are you _serious_ -” the pale employee splutters indignantly, his entire face contorting in an admittedly impressive effort to convey just how utterly offended he is by Isaac's lack of blind loyalty.

“Alright, it’s fine, calm down,” the tanned employee says soothingly, holding a placating hand out towards the pale guy - whose eyes widen even more dramatically as he hisses _calm down?!_ back at his colleague - “What matters is he’s here. We’re all here. We need all the bodies we can get, right? Strength in numbers?”

The pale guy turns his head to the side and presses his lips together, nose scrunching angrily, shaking his head as if he can’t believe the audacity of this Isaac guy. He throws a couple of reluctant glances at the tanned employee, and then opens his mouth to let out a heavy sigh, and finally nods concedingly. “Yeah. Right.”

The blonde employee finally turns away from the scene, smirking to herself, and her gaze lands on Derek, who is hovering a couple steps from the counter, an expression of confusion-bordering-on-repulsion tightening his forehead and twisting his mouth. He quirks an eyebrow at her to try and convey just how unimpressed he is with having to have waited so long to be noticed and served, even though he honestly got so caught up in being completely bewildered by the other employees that he forgot what he was there for - but nobody needs to know that. Ever.

“What’re you here for?” she asks him, quirking her own eyebrow, and he thinks that this young woman might be the _only_ thing that makes sense about Boyd’s preference for the coffee shop, because she seems as inept at polite customer service as Derek and Boyd are.

But he isn’t quite certain that she’s worth tolerating the rest of the place, employees included, when the pale guy takes notice of her diverted attention and blinks a little stupidly at Derek, craning his neck to see him better. “Wait, who are you? I don’t remember hiring you. I’d definitely remember if I did. You’re fired, anyway. Nobody’s gonna believe someone like you is gonna walk into that cesspit. You’re way too attractive.”

“You’re one of the actors?” the blonde woman asks flatly, eyeing him up and down.

“No,” Derek grunts, throwing the pale guy a short glare before stepping closer to the counter and retrieving his wallet to make it clear why he’s there.

“ _Oh my god_ , Scott, are you _seeing_ this guy?” 

Derek ignores the attempt at a hushed exclamation by the pale employee to his tanned colleague, and instead lists off the paninis he knows Boyd usually gets for the two of them. “And a couple coffees. To go.”

The blonde woman doesn’t move to prepare his order, and he frowns at her. She tilts her head, looking more closely at his face and attire, and then crosses her arms. “You’re Derek, aren’t you?”

Derek ignores the continued voice from beyond the counter (“ _S_ _cott_ , his name is Derek. Write that down. Actually, don’t. I don’t trust you to get it right.”) and focuses on the only member of staff in the place who is anywhere close to potentially serving him.

“Boyd?” Derek questions, reading the tag naming her Erica and saving the information for when he inevitably complains to Boyd about this entire ordeal.

(“It’s a pretty simple name, Stiles. I don’t know how I could mess that up.”)

Erica nods, so Derek nods, and then she smirks and finally moves to make his order.

(“Forgive me for feeling a little dubious about your abilities when I’ve literally watched you misspell your own name on multiple occasions.”)

Derek pulls his phone out of his pocket and opens the news app - because he refuses to engage in any manner with social media and he really needs something to distract his attention from the ridiculous chattering going on at the end of the counter - and turns his back to the crowd of people, whoever they are, to face towards the front of the shop where he desperately wants to escape out of.

Someone makes a sound like they’re choking on air, and Derek prays to any and all deities that there’s not going to be a near-death experience delaying his order any further.

“ _Jesus christ_ , Scott, his _ass_ -” the pale guy - Stiles, Derek’s mind supplies, despite his innate refusal to familiarise himself with any of that chaos - hisses loudly. Derek’s back tenses.

“ _Alright_ ,” Scott says over the top of his colleague. “We’ve gotten a little off-track, here. Maybe we should go over the plan, since we’re paying per thirty-minutes.”

“You guys really aren’t inspiring much confidence.”

“Shut _up_ , Isaac,” Stiles snaps. “This is step one of twenty-six in our plan to take Argent down and it’s a frickin’ _great_ plan, alright? So shut your mouth and show some damn respect.”

“For who? _You_? I’ve got more respect for the dog that pisses in my stairwell every morning,” Isaac retorts.

“You know what, Lahey-”

“Oh my _god_ , would you two _stop_?” Scott cuts in, exasperated.

“-you are _ruining_ the mood, here, alright? You’re putting a real damper on our battle speech and I’m gonna fill your morning coffee with salt and I’m gonna-”

“ _Stiles_ , we’re supposed to be inspiring these people,” Scott complains.

“Dude, you don’t need to inspire us. You just need to pay us,” someone comments.

“God _damnit_ , this is _not_ how this is supposed to go!” Stiles protests loudly. 

“Your paninis will be ready in a minute,” Erica comments as she slides two take-away cups of coffee across the counter. Derek notices a red lipstick stain on one of the cups. Erica smirks her red lips at him when she notices him noticing. “Inside joke with Boyd,” is all she says to explain. Derek doesn’t really care.

“Scott, Stiles,” a calm, collected voice cuts through the indignant babbling pouring out of Stiles’ mouth and Scott’s exhausted attempts to deflate the aggravation. Derek risks a glance over his shoulder and finds everyone’s attention on a bald man, probably mid-to-late-30s, wearing a maroon shirt and a fondly-tired smile on his face. “Might I enquire as to the reason behind this gathering of people? I certainly hope they’re customers.”

Stiles scrambles off the bench to stand next to Scott, sharing a startled look with his colleague. “Uh, in a way, yes. They are customers.”

The man lifts his eyebrows, maintaining the smile, and obviously awaits an explanation.

“Alright, so, uh, we’re devoted to _Deaton’s_ , you know that, right?” Stiles rushes out, his shoulder blades shifting erratically under his t-shirt as he presumably gestures with his hands, hidden from Derek’s view. “We are completely and irrefutably indebted to your generosity and wisdom, and we are dedicated to ensuring the prosperity of your business at whatever cost, including emotional trauma, bodily harm, criminal activity-”

“ _Dude_ ,” Scott interrupts pointedly.

“Right, no. You’re right,” Stiles laughs forcibly. “I’m being dramatic. We’d never do anything illegal with you knowing.”

“Or at all,” Scott adds nervously.

“Ha! Yeah, exactly, of course, yeah. You’ve taught us better than-”

“We’re gonna destroy Argent and his business,” Isaac says, loud and flat and bored.

“Oh, eat a bag of dicks, Isaac,” Stiles snaps, infuriated.

“Boys,” the man says firmly, shutting the three of them up. “What are these people doing here?”

“Uh, we were gonna pay them to go into Argent’s place and make a bunch of complaints,” Scott finally reveals.

And, _honestly_ , Derek has never in his life seen anything like this place and its unbelievably ridiculous staff.

“I see,” the man responds, exasperated.

“It’s step one of the big plan,” Stiles rushes to defend the situation. “Step one of twenty-six. Step One: A is for Actors. It’s revolutionary, boss, I swear to god. We stayed up three nights in a row-”

“Your big plan is to go through the alphabet and come up with twenty-six individual plans to damage another local business just because they are _also_ a coffee shop, even though our business doesn’t suffer because of them and is, in fact, performing better than it did last year?”

“Well, y’know,” Stiles stutters, massaging his shoulder as he glances at Scott. “They’re evil. And sometimes you gotta act preemptively in war.”

“This isn’t a war, gentlemen. And Argent isn’t evil. And _you_ aren’t the commanders of some army; you’re a couple of baristas trying and failing to sell a ridiculous concept to a group of people who are only here because you offered them money.”

Stiles scoffs, glancing at Scott again as his chin pulls into his neck, his mouth twisting into a lopsided smirk. “Jeez, boss, tell us what you really think,” he mutters.

“You should probably head out if you want these to still have some heat left in them by the time you reach your bookstore,” Erica’s voice snaps Derek’s attention back to the reason behind his presence in this parody of a coffee shop. She cocks her head at him, her arms folded above the neat gathering of Derek’s order on the counter - and he does _not_ want to think about how long it’s been ready without his noticing. “Unless you’re enjoying the show too much?”

Derek scowls, tosses a couple of bills onto the counter, and snatches the coffee and paninis out from under Erica’s taunting smirk so he can storm out of the coffee shop without a backwards glance.

When he returns to the blissful silence of his bookstore, his body deflates with relief. 

Boyd glances up at him as he accepts the coffee cup with the lipstick stain and the paper bag with his panini, and his eyebrows twitch into a frown. “What?” he asks.

Derek works his jaw for a moment and tries to figure out how to express himself. “That place,” he says, frowning at the stack of books on the counter waiting to be reshelved. “Those _people_ ,” he adds, trailing off.

Boyd nods understandingly. “But the coffee, and the food,” he reasons. And when he lifts his cup to his mouth and spots the lipstick stain, his face simultaneously softens and tenses, and, honestly, Derek doesn’t want to know what the hell’s going on there, either.

Derek Hale has a lot of time for Vernon Boyd - but one trip to retrieve Boyd’s favourite lunch has shaken Derek to his core, and he’s reconsidering what lengths he’ll go to to help his employee.


	2. Step Four: D is for Danny

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles enlists Danny's help to improve Deaton's Dream Beans' website.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fanfiction.net has two chapters, so here's the second one for you guys as well! The third chapter will be up soon. Please let me know what you think!

It’s Monday, which means that Derek and Boyd both had a day off yesterday. It means that Derek was granted a full day to recover from his visit to _Deaton’s Dream Beans_ and forget about the chaos that was Scott, Stiles, and Isaac and their so-called big plan to take down someone called Argent for simply being a rival coffee shop (it took a lot more effort than was expected). It also means that Derek’s morning begins with dusting all of his bookshelves; late-morning will involve sweeping and vacuuming rugs, and his afternoon will be spent cleaning the windows spanning two sides of the store, since it’s located on the corner of the street.

Boyd’s arrival is marked by the bell at 8:57am, and Derek looks left along the bookshelves he’s already dusted to appraise Boyd in his hooded jumper and jeans. The young man’s backpack looks stuffed and heavy slung over his shoulder, and it makes a dull thud when he lets it slip down his arm to land on the floor behind the counter. Derek’s eyes narrow at the unusually-unsettling pallor of Boyd’s face and clears his throat.

“I have a flask in the staffroom,” he says, loud enough for Boyd to hear him.

Boyd sends him a distracted nod and slips through the open doorway behind the counter, reemerging a minute later with his hands cradling a mug of the coffee Derek brought from home. Sometimes Boyd goes to _Deaton’s_ in the morning to pick up coffee for them both, but most of the time he doesn’t, so Derek has learned to make up a flask of his own and bring it in. Usually, Boyd has the same idea, or has already had a coffee at home before he comes in, but sometimes Derek finds himself having to share his coffee with the young man even though he knows Boyd finds Derek’s coffee a touch too dull and bitter. Clearly, today, all Boyd needs is a caffeine hit, no matter the punishment to his taste buds.

Derek gets back to dusting his bookshelves, starting at the highest shelf and working his way down to the bottom methodically. Boyd sets up some quiet music to filter through the store and thumps his laptop down on the counter to continue with whatever college work has kept him up all night. Derek finishes the bookshelves lining the windows and turns to the other side of the aisle. 

A customer comes in with her little boy at one point, and Derek directs her to the kids’ section (which is strategically located in the area of the store furthest from the counter, where Derek spent most of his days until he hired Boyd). They select a few books, two for the kid and one for the woman, pay Boyd for them at the counter, and leave the store to descend into comfortable silence again.

Derek is sweeping when their second customer comes in, a college student looking for some textbooks for their course. There’s a panicked urgency about the student, babbling about tests and papers and the cost of textbooks in the college library, and Derek assures him that college students benefit from a discount structure in his store. The student nearly weeps with gratitude when Boyd calculates his total and he realises he isn’t going to go broke just so he can pass his test. 

Before long, Derek starts to feel hungry. He returns the vacuum to the cupboard in the staffroom and glances up at the clock on the wall. It’s 1.18pm, and he can still hear Boyd hammering away at his keyboard. Derek’s shoulders slump with the realisation that giving Boyd coffee this morning and answering the customers’ questions hasn’t been enough kind deeds for one day, and Boyd hasn’t decided to do the lunch-run to repay him.

It really does say a lot about Derek’s appreciation of Boyd as a human being and an employee that he finds himself driving out to _Deaton’s_ again. He has to park on the opposite side of the street this time, and finds himself stepping out onto the sidewalk outside of a place called _The Bunker_. He frowns as he inspects the interior, recognising it as a coffee shop and wondering whether this is the place run by the Argent guy. It looks like it has a more industrial interior, with dim lights and dark uniforms, and the customers all seem to be working or reading, or other things that don’t involve talking, and Derek wonders why the hell _this_ isn’t the place that Boyd goes every single lunchtime, because it seems much more suited to Boyd’s (and Derek’s) preferences. The immediate scolding he gets as soon as he opens the door to _Deaton’s_ doesn’t do anything to appease him.

“I saw you eyeing up Argent’s place,” a voice comments grumpily from the counter along the window on Derek’s right. He peels his sunglasses off and looks over at Stiles with an impassive expression. The barista is perched on a stool, hunched over the counter next to a young man with a laptop, his face peering over the top of his companion’s head with narrowed eyes, tonguing his cheek unhappily. “If you so much as _think_ about switching sides and betraying us, you’ll be banned for life.”

Derek slips the leg of his sunglasses over the collar of his tee, and Stiles scowls, jaw clenching, as if the action personally offends him. “I’m not on a side,” Derek informs him.

Stiles scoffs, his mouth twisting into that lopsided smirk Derek saw the last time he was here. “Oh, yeah? Tell that to your broody protégé with the wordless, expressionless mooning he does over Erica. The dude comes in _every_ day for lunch. I think he’d be pretty pissed if you deprived him of our delectable _Dream Beans_. If you go to Argent’s, you _and_ your mini-me are banned.”

“He’s not my mini-me,” Derek says.

“You can’t just ban people for no reason, Stiles. That doesn’t really go with the wholesome, family vibe you boast so much,” the young man on the laptop says.

Stiles’ face scrunches indignantly. “Then we’ll make a No-Leather-Jacket policy,” he retorts. “The two of them look like they’ve walked off a BDSM porn shoot - how’s _that_ for corrupting the wholesome, family vibe?”

The queue at the counter moves up and Scott’s eyes search for his next customer, finding Derek waiting. “Hey, man, you’re Derek, right?” the barista asks, all happy smiles and bright eyes like a little puppy. Derek just nods and steps up to the counter. “You want the usual? Well, Boyd’s usual?” Derek nods again, and Scott sends him another grin before getting to work.

“Wait, what the hell is that, Danny? I said maroon. That’s _clearly_ burgundy,” Stiles protests at the window.

“I literally put in the colour code for maroon,” Danny retorts flatly.

“Alright, well, the code’s wrong then, isn’t it? Because _that_ is absolutely not maroon. It’s not even close. It’s, like, a gajillion light-years off. It’s so far off it doesn’t even-”

“Why don’t _you_ find the colour you like, then?” Danny interrupts irritably. “Instead of micromanaging with nothing but ‘ _the colour of Scott’s shirt that one time we went hiking on that trail’_ as a reference.”

“Stiles, that shirt was wine, if anything. Not maroon,” Scott supplies as he fastens lids on Derek’s coffees. 

“No, dude. I’m telling you, it was maroon,” Stiles insists. “I swear to God it was maroon.”

Scott gives Derek an awkward smile when he pushes the coffee cups into the cardboard holder between them. “It’s Step Four: D is for Danny,” the barista says, as if that’s going to explain anything.

Or, more importantly, as if Derek is even interested.

The queue ahead of Derek moves again, and he walks up to the till now that it’s free. Isaac is the one who rings up his order this time, but he doesn’t need to ask what the order consists of, and the amount matches what Erica charged him on Saturday. Clearly, everyone in _Deaton’s_ is familiar with Boyd and his usual lunch order. Derek itches with bewildered curiosity about his employee’s relationship with the baristas, but he keeps quiet and moves back to the bottom of the counter when Isaac tells him Scott will bring his paninis there.

“It’s not my fault you guys use this shitty company for your website,” Danny is complaining, staring out of the window while Stiles buries his face in the laptop.

“Technically, the blame is on Deaton. We don’t have anything to do with the website,” Stiles mutters.

“Wait, what?” Danny asks, looking down at Stiles’ head. “Does Deaton not know I’m doing shit to his website?”

“You’re not ‘ _doing shit’_ ,” Stiles retorts pointedly, pulling the laptop out of the way when Danny tries to snatch it back. “You’re improving and upgrading the user experience of our online presence.”

“And you’re getting paid for it,” Isaac interjects from where he’s replenishing the muffins. “It’s more than I got.”

“Isaac, so help me,” Stiles hisses, straightening on his stool to turn and level the curly barista with an enraged glare (Derek’s seen, and delivered, much worse). “If I hear you whine _one more time_ about not getting paid to defend the source of your income, I swear to _Satan_ I’m gonna-”

“Alright, Derek, here are your paninis,” Scott’s voice cuts in, diffusing the tension between Isaac and Stiles instantly. “Enjoy!”

Derek snatches the bags and stomps towards the door.

“And, _you_!” Stiles exclaims, catching Derek’s attention just as he leans his shoulder against the door to push it open. The barista is pointing a long finger at Derek, chin jutting and brow furrowed in a useless attempt at intimidation - particularly useless thanks to the sunlight hitting his eyes like a glass of whiskey (and Derek’s flare of irritation has _nothing_ to do with his sudden inability to leave the shop, which _certainly_ has nothing to do with those _eyes_ ). “If you _ever_ betray us and go into Argent’s just because it’s all dark and moody like you, I hope you know that not even your eyebrows will stop me from annihilating you.”

Derek decides to let Stiles know what a _real_ glare looks like, and his chest warms with self-satisfaction when the barista with the eyes like whiskey deflates with a stunned blink.

“ _Please_ tell me that wasn’t your attempt at flirting?” Danny bemoans.

Stiles splutters, his entire body convulsing, his eyes bulging out of his head, but he moves so that the sunlight isn’t hitting them anymore and whatever spell (or curse) that had caught Derek is broken and he shoulders his way out of the coffee shop and its chaos.

Boyd meets Derek’s silent, searching gaze when he delivers his employee’s lunch back in the bookstore, and Derek _knows_ he must know why Derek’s looking at him like that, but all Boyd does in response is take a deep swig of coffee and a hearty bite of his panini. It still isn’t a satisfying justification for enduring _Deaton’s Dream Beans_ every single day.


	3. Step Six: F is for Feminine Ways

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles attempts to recruit Lydia. 
> 
> Derek scowls.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to anyone and everyone leaving kudos and comments and bookmarking my story! I hope you're all enjoying!! This chapter is a little shorter, sorry xx

Derek thought that he’d managed to be released from the lunch-run-from-Hell duty, since Boyd had wordlessly left the bookstore at 1.00pm on the dot yesterday and returned a while later with their usual order. But, clearly, Derek was naive, and Derek hates Boyd’s college and their never-ending assignments.

When he pushes into the dreaded coffee shop, he hides his searching gaze behind his sunglasses for a moment until he’s satisfied that none of the apron-wearing idiots are the Idiot in Charge, and then slips the glasses off his face to tuck them over the collar of his tee. Scott is in the back of the shop, clearing tables of dirty dishes and giving them a wipe-down. Isaac is at the bottom of the counter, eyes catching Derek and nodding his recognition, and Erica is at the till serving a customer. From what he’s seen the past two times he’s been in the shop, there are usually only three of the idiots working at a time.

“Hey, man,” Isaac greets him when he approaches the counter. “The usual?”

Derek hates that word. He hates the _familiarity_ it allows these complete strangers. So, he doesn’t order the usual. He gets Boyd the same as always, but he chooses a different panini for himself. He almost asks for something other than coffee, as well, but ultimately concedes that missing his afternoon caffeine hit would be a mistake.

“Sure,” Isaac says easily, not even giving Derek a confused glance or anything before turning to make up the order.

The lack of reaction bothers Derek. He wanted Isaac to realise he _isn’t_ familiar with him. He wanted Isaac to have learned a lesson about assuming he knows what Derek wants. But Isaac just repeats the change in order to Erica when the till becomes free, and she does nothing more than nod and amend the total cost, looking up at Derek with bored expectation.

Derek tries not to look bothered when he hands her the money.

And then the door swings open, and Derek realises it was especially naive of him to expect to come to _Deaton’s_ and not face some kind of infuriating interaction with Stiles.

“I’m just saying, you could’ve thrown in a _little_ more dazzle with that razzle,” his voice babbles.

Derek closes his eyes for a moment, taking a calming breath as irritation instantly flares in his chest.

“You still haven’t explained why you wanted me to give someone - who you also didn’t name - a little ‘razzle dazzle’, Stiles,” a female voice responds.

Derek opens his eyes and looks down the counter to the front of the shop, where Stiles is making a big show of pulling a chair out for a young woman with long, bouncy waves of strawberry-blonde hair. She’s wearing a colourful shirt tucked into a pair of fitted jeans and some short ankle boots, and they all look made for her. Stiles, on the other hand, is wearing a graphic tee and an oversized chequered shirt as if he’s been dressed by a nerdy teenager.

“C’mon, Lyds, you’re smarter than that. You can’t tell me you haven’t already-” Stiles is saying, moving to the end of the counter to deposit a cardboard drinks holder with three milkshakes secured in it. The entire time, his eyes never leave the young woman.

“Forgive me for holding out hope that you weren’t going to involve me in this _big plan_ of yours to take down my best friend’s dad’s business,” she interrupts, rolling her eyes.

Isaac finishes making Derek’s coffees and takes one of the milkshakes Stiles delivered, passing the other one up to Erica. Scott slips past Derek and takes the last milkshake, moving to stand at Stiles’ back when the young man slumps into the seat next to the strawberry-blonde.

“Hey, Lydia,” Scott smiles with an apologetic twinge.

“I assume you’re aware of this delusion Stiles has that I’m gonna help you two in any way?” Lydia replies.

“We kinda came up with the plan together,” Scott admits, leaning the straw of his milkshake against his lips and smiling nervously, eyebrows twisting upwards. The guy definitely knows how to play up the whole puppy-dog look.

“Lydia,” Stiles says firmly, leaning across the table towards her and ignoring the way his chin bumps the straw of his own milkshake. Derek doesn’t think Stiles has taken his eyes off of Lydia the entire time they’ve been in the shop. “My sweet, summer flower. My beautiful, wise queen. My kryptonite.” He slips his hand across the tabletop to take a hold of hers, threading their fingers together, and she lets him, biting back a smile.

Derek looks away from the scene. Isaac is sucking on his milkshake, watching the timer on the little cooker heating the paninis. Erica is leaning on the counter, one hand holding her milkshake while the other scrolls her phone. Derek scowls and shoves his hands in his jacket pockets, trying to block out the sound of Stiles’ conversation.

“You _are_ Step Six, my little minx. We need you. We can’t do it without you.”

“And you’re sure neither of you two knuckleheads can do it?” Lydia asks tiredly.

“Well, it’s not exactly- I mean, it’s Step Six: F is for Feminine Ways,” Scott replies.

“Excuse me?”

“Uh, Scott, buddy,” Stiles laughs forcibly. “I thought we weren’t gonna say that part out loud around the star player.”

“Alright, I think I’ve entertained this enough,” Lydia says.

Derek can’t help but look over at the scuffle that sounds. Lydia has pushed to her feet and stepped away from the table, and Scott and Stiles have both stumbled forward, reaching for her, and ended up tripping over each other, the chair, _and_ the table in their haste.

“No, no, no, wait!” Stiles rushes, trying to detangle himself from Scott. “This would be mutually beneficial, I promise!”

Lydia stares at the door for a moment, letting them stare desperately at her, before finally turning her head to look at them again. “Well?” she prompts, impatient.

“Oh, uh, yeah? Yeah, okay. Okay. Mutually beneficial, _yes_ , because- listen- I mean, Aiden’s hot, right?” Stiles splutters, glancing between Scott and Lydia, gesturing emphatically even though the majority of his words were completely unnecessary. “We’re all happy to admit that, even if he is the spawn of Satan, right?”

“Yeah, totally,” Scott agrees, nodding earnestly.

Derek’s beginning to question his assumption that Stiles and Lydia are together, or at least like each other (and, no, that’s not why his scowl relaxes a little - it’s actually because he can see Isaac getting ready to take the paninis out of the cooker).

“And, y’know, you’re _you_ ,” Stiles continues, gesturing at Lydia’s entirety. “So we were thinking that, y’know, you could maybe-seduce-Aiden-and-get-us-some-insider-information-in-between-all-the-sexing?” he rushes out.

Lydia glares at him.

“You’ve always said he’s hot and we know you bet Danny that Aiden would be good in bed,” Scott adds diplomatically.

“I’m gonna sit down again, but it’s so I can process the absolute lunacy of you two morons and your idiotic plans, _not_ because I’m considering it,” Lydia snaps, slumping back into the seat and dropping her head in her hands.

Stiles slowly settles back onto his chair, sending a hopeful glance up at Scott, who replies with a doubtful expression.

“I swear, you two lower the IQ of everyone in the room when you come up with stuff like this,” Lydia adds.

“Here you go, man,” Isaac says, sliding the bags with Derek’s paninis over the counter to him.

Derek nods his thanks and collects the bags and the coffee holder, turning to walk towards the door.

“Lydia, we wouldn’t ask for your help if it wasn’t important, alright? I mean, it’s kinda life or death, here, because if we don’t get rid of- oh, hey, see you later, man!” Stiles calls out.

Derek frowns and turns to look over his shoulder when he gets to the door, finding Stiles watching him with a smile and a wave. Derek stares at him for a moment, caught off-guard by Stiles’ sudden, casual attention as if he knew Derek had been in the building the whole time. Stiles’ smile wavers a little, his hand ceasing movement mid-air. Derek glances down at Lydia when she turns a confused frown round to him (and ignores the way she deflates with something that might be exasperation and lets out a muttered _oh my god, Stiles_ ). Derek looks at Stiles one last time, and he tries - he really does try - to glare at the guy, but he just blinks and exits the shop.

When Derek gets back to the bookstore, he gives Boyd his coffee and panini, and slaps the receipt on the counter too. “Erica wrote her number down. I assume it’s for you,” he says. Boyd doesn’t meet his eyes, but he takes the receipt and tucks it into his pocket.

And Derek _doesn’t_ wonder what kind of texter Stiles is (whether he sends one massive text or a million tiny ones, or if he’s too busy chattering endlessly in person that he forgets about his phone and doesn’t respond for hours at a time, or if he’d pay any more attention to his phone if it was Derek texting him). He doesn't.


	4. Step Nine: I is for Isaac, Betrayer of Justice and Honour and All Things Good in This World

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles is dramatic. 
> 
> Derek is confused.
> 
> Isaac is a flirt and an ass.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to the people leaving lovely comments, you guys are the sweetest and you make my day!! Hope you enjoy the latest chapter x

Derek is an idiot. He makes himself a flask of coffee _every_ morning. He sees how much coffee he has in his coffee tin _every day_. He saw it depleting. He had spooned out the last of the ground beans. And, yet, he had not taken it upon himself to do the smart and appropriate thing and _buy more coffee_.

There's a coffee shop on his way to his bookstore from his apartment, but it's a chain and their coffee tastes like capitalism and the oppression of local businesses, and _maybe_ Boyd has given Derek a newfound appreciation for having higher standards. So, at 8.27am, Derek is parking up outside of _Deaton's Dream Beans_ and trying to ignore the idle wondering his mind does of which baristas might be on the early shift. He's playing a dangerous game, coming here where the whiskey-eyes work before he's had any coffee this morning, but he thinks he's got a 95% chance of keeping up his normal reputation.

When he pushes into the shop, he spots a couple of customers already seated - one up the back, and one at a small table beside the counter. He sees a maroon apron in his peripherals, where Stiles is standing at the counter along the window, leaning on a stool, but it appears as though none of the other staff are in yet.

"Hey," Stiles mutters distractedly, gesturing Derek over without looking. "Would you come stand here for a second with me, to make it less obvious?"

Derek frowns - and it turns into a scowl when his feet automatically take him over to stand next to Stiles. "Make what less obvious?" he asks, following Stiles' gaze out the window.

Isaac is standing across the street, outside the clothes shop beside _The Bunker_ , smiling cheekily at a young woman with short, brown, bouncy hair. She's grinning up at him, dimples puncturing her cheeks, her arms folded across her chest.

"This is the third time I've seen him doing this," Stiles says quietly, as if Isaac will be able to hear him.

Derek watches the two interact, wondering what exactly is so interesting about it, and then glances at Stiles. He finds the barista's expression especially suspicious and unhappy, and it makes Derek pause, tucking twitching fingers into his jacket pockets.

He averts his eyes for a moment, grinding his teeth, and then clears his throat. "You think he's.." he mutters, trailing off. "You guys are-"

"Yeah. I do think. I think very much," Stiles bites out.

Derek scowls when his stomach sinks a little. But he doesn't know what to say, or do. So he just stands there, watching the guy Stiles is seeing flirt with someone else. He hadn't realised that Stiles was seeing Isaac, hadn't noticed anything romantic between them, since all he'd seen of their dynamic was irritation and exasperation. Not that _his_ dynamic with Stiles is anything better than that (not that there's a dynamic at _all_ or that it has absolutely _any_ relevance to the fact that Stiles is seeing someone).

"I can't believe him, man," Stiles sighs harshly, shifting on his feet and crossing his arms grumpily. Derek can't even look at him full-on. "All the talks we've had about loyalty and doing the right thing," the barista continues. "I mean, it's been two years, y'know? And, what, he's just gonna throw that all away for a couple of dimples? What's so great about her, anyway?" He makes a noise of disgust when Isaac says something to make the woman laugh and they both take a step closer to each other. " _God_ , they're disgusting. I'm disgusted. I can't believe he's doing this, dude. This is the worst thing that's ever happened."

"Maybe you shouldn't watch," Derek grunts.

"Maybe _he_ shouldn't be flirting with _her_ right across the street! In full-view of the shop! Where anyone and everyone can see!" Stiles retorts indignantly. He runs a hand down his face and lets out a long groan. "Does he even _realise_ how this makes us look?"

Derek frowns. "He's the one who looks like an idiot," he says, a little awkwardly. "Anyone could see that."

"No, dude," Stiles shakes his head, shifting his weight onto his right foot and tilting his body closer to Derek's. "This looks bad. On all of us."

Derek blinks, confused.

"It's just- y'know, you spend all this time building up a reputation, putting in the work, pouring your heart and soul into it, and then _one_ dumb move just unwravels it all. I mean, I've lost _sleep_ over this shit, and I know I lose sleep over a lot of things all the time, but still - it's disrespectful. It's completely disrespectful and rude and he's spitting on all the work we've done and all the progress we've made!"

Derek removes a hand from his pocket to snatch Stiles' forearm when his hand flails too close to Derek's face again. Stiles freezes at the contact and finally turns to look over at him. Derek glares back at his warm eyes, trying not to admire the colour of them up this close.

"Just dump him," Derek nearly growls.

Stiles' eyes narrow, pink lips pouting thoughtfully. "I could," he muses. "Although, it'd be a little awkward and difficult with him being here all the time. Even if he doesn't contribute much in the first place."

"Get a new job," Derek retorts. "Or tell him to."

Stiles' face crumples with amused confusion. "What? Dude, that doesn't make any sense. I can't _leave_ \- I'd ruin everything more than loverboy is. The whole point of this thing is the _job_ , so why would I leave?"

Derek scowls. "You're dating him for a job in a coffee shop?"

Stiles' eyes nearly bug out of his head. "Wait, what? _What_? Dati- _what_?! Isaac? Me? _Dating_? What- where'd you get- _what_?"

Derek actually recoils from the onslaught of exclamations, suddenly realising he'd kept a hold of Stiles' arm when he drops it hastily. Stiles' face slackens briefly as he glances at Derek's hand, as if only just remembering as well, and then scrunches again in bewilderment.

"Hang on, you thought Isaac and I were _dating_? And that he was, what, like, cheating on me or something?" he splutters.

Derek shoves his hand back in his pocket and scowls, glaring at the wall behind Stiles.

"Wait, so you were- when you said he looks- you were actually-" Stiles says, turning to face Derek fully.

"I need a coffee before I'm late for work," Derek says, even though he _owns_ the store and can't be late.

Stiles stares at him. Derek meets his gaze and glares.

Eventually, Stiles clears his throat, his face pushing strangely in an attempt at a nonchalant expression, and nods. "Right, yeah. Sure. Got it. Coffee for the man. The man with a plan. Coffee for-"

"Stiles," Derek bites out.

Stiles' head bobs emphatically, both hands lifting to point at Derek, and then he scampers behind the counter to get to work.

"One for Boyd, too," Derek adds. His face scrunches. "Please."

Stiles sends him a slightly wary glance over his shoulder. "Yup. Sure thing. Can do. Two coffees for the man in black. Got it."

Derek's teeth bite into each other as he averts his attention.

Then the door opens, and Stiles shouts out a little over-enthusiastically. "Isaac!"

"Jesus, Stiles, it's not even 9am," Isaac mutters.

"Didn't stop you from fraternising with the enemy, did it?" Stiles retorts. It seems like the confrontation has settled him somewhat.

"Hey, man, you're here early," Isaac greets Derek.

Derek merely nods in response.

"What, you're just gonna pretend like you didn't hear me?" Stiles intones, unimpressed.

"No, I'm just gonna react to you being an idiot," Isaac snarks, heading towards a door up the back of the shop.

"You know, I know we hadn't actually come up with anything for step nine yet, but that doesn't mean you were free to go and _sabotage_ everything like this!" Stiles shouts.

"Shut up, Stiles!" Isaac shouts back.

"Children," Stiles mutters angrily. "I work with children. I can't believe this is the shit I have to deal with. How am I supposed to execute a fool-proof plan if _everyone_ around me is a frickin' fool?"

Derek watches Stiles' back with a quirked eyebrow as the barista makes up the coffees for him.

"The only consolation is Jackson and the twins are dumber than Scott - and that's saying something, honestly - but they've got _Allison_ and she's a frickin' mastermind _and_ a badass. Okay, so maybe I can't exactly blame Isaac for getting distracted by her but, dude, _now_ is really not the time. Who's to say she isn't using _him_ for insider information? I bet he knows and doesn't give a shit, anyway. I bet he'd turn his back on us if she asked him to. God damnit. Who knew? Step Nine: I is for Isaac, Betrayer of Justice and Honour and All Things Good in This World."

He secures the lids on the coffees and turns to Derek, depositing them on the counter. Muttering, now inaudibly, to himself, he collects one of the cupholders and pushes the coffee cups into it. Then he sighs and leans his hands on either side of the holder, head hanging low.

Derek eyes the mess of brown hair in front of him, then lets his gaze travel down Stiles' arms to the hands and fingers splayed across the counter. They're long and a little boney, and they look like they'd throw a decent punch, or lift a decent weight, or clutch tightly to-

"I'm gonna have to rethink step nine," Stiles says, interrupting Derek's train of thought. "You don't have any ideas, do you?" he asks, lifting a desperate, pleading expression into Derek's view.

And since when did Derek find this whole _ridiculous_ _plan_ thing of Stiles' _amusing_?

"I just want the coffee," Derek grunts - because he can't go around _revealing_ his amusement, can he?

Stiles sighs disappointedly, but doesn't appear to take the rude reply personally, and nods, standing up straight again. Derek hands him a bill and Stiles wanders to the till to cash it in.

"Hey, would you tell Boyd to stop distracting Erica when she's on shift?" Isaac says when he reappears from the back, apron tied neatly around his neck and waist. He saunters up to the top of the counter and leans a hip against it, crossing his arms. "And wish him luck for that test in a couple days."

And because Derek hasn't had his caffeine yet and so isn't in total control of himself (and _not_ because Stiles gives him a lopsided smile when he hands him his change and receipt and catches Derek off-guard), he asks the two baristas, "Does Boyd actually _talk to you_ when he comes in here?"

Isaac shrugs, as if that gives him a solid answer, but Stiles scoffs a little. "He's not as much of a chatterbox as you are, but him and Erica seem to get a whole load of communicating done, anyway," Stiles smirks, his eyebrows quirking suggestively.

Isaac frowns at him. "Boyd talks more than Derek does."

"Uh, not to me, he doesn't."

"Boyd talks to _everyone_ more than Derek does."

Derek stuffs the change and receipt into his pocket and picks up the cupholder from the countertop.

"No, man, I'm telling you, Boyd has _never_ _once_ had a conversation with me."

"You've had a conversation with Derek?"

Derek clears his throat, catching the young men's attention again. His throat itches to thank Stiles, but he suddenly doesn't want to do so in front of Isaac. Instead, he just meets Stiles' warm gaze and presses his lips together briefly in an attempt to communicate his thanks silently, and turns to leave.

"See you at lunch, chatterbox!" Isaac shouts after him.

Derek ignores the silent look Boyd gives him when he comes into the bookstore and finds a coffee from _Deaton's_ waiting on the counter for him.

But he _does_ tell Boyd to do the lunch-run later.


	5. Step Twelve: L is for Lacrosse, Baby

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles and co. play lacrosse against Allison and co.
> 
> Derek catches the end of the game.
> 
> Stiles gets hurt and Derek fixes him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A longer chapter for you guys! Hope you enjoy x
> 
> Please let me know what you think!

Derek blinks at the ceiling of his apartment, his head leaning against the back of his couch, his expression scrunched into flat, hard lines, and he tightens his grip on his phone. It is imprisoned in a hand resting in his lap, having dropped there over ten seconds ago after he read the text he had received from Boyd after a long day of enjoying his own company in his own home, happy in the knowledge that Boyd was taking care of the store.

He likes Boyd. The young man is Derek's first and only employee, and probably the closest thing to a friend Derek has, no matter how lonely or pathetic that makes him sound. Boyd _understands_ Derek - he knows what Derek likes to eat and drink, how Derek likes to interact with people, how he wants his bookstore to be run - and that is truly invaluable to Derek. He had spent the majority of his life being cajoled into situations that made him feel uncomfortable and, admittedly, a little isolated, and that finally ended when he opened his bookstore and _he_ was in charge of how he behaved, and people finally learned what to expect from him and accepted it. When Boyd came in and seemed to actually appreciate and _share_ in the preferences Derek has for social interaction, well, Derek figured he'd struck a very, _very_ rare type of gold.

And maybe, because of that, Derek had read too much into Boyd's continuing employment at his bookstore, because Derek had thought that Boyd _also_ enjoyed and appreciated Derek and the common, silent, minimalistic ground they shared, but now he's starting to suspect that Boyd doesn't like Derek at all, and that Boyd would very much like for Derek to suffer - painfully.

He sighs through his nostrils and lifts his head so that he can look down at his phone again. The text is still shining brightly up at him from between his fingers, mocking him with half-hidden words as the echo of the message in its entirety rattles around his skull.

" _DBB playing lacrosse against the Bunker tonight 7pm at the school. Got picked up from the store but none of them live near me to give me a ride home. You in the area to swing by?_ "

He tries to align the image of Boyd he's maintained for the past year and a half - the silent, stoic image of the young man stood behind the counter with a calm, guarded expression and watchful eyes and contentedly closed mouth - with the image of Boyd _willingly_ getting in a car with those loud, bubbly, _loud_ baristas and _willingly_ going to the fucking _high school_ to stand around and watch an entire lacrosse game in their _company_. _Willingly_. It's a struggle.

Derek pushes to his feet, tosses his phone onto his coffee table, and strides towards his kitchen. He's going to ignore the text and just focus on choosing something to make for his dinner and he's _not_ going to wonder who's playing the game and what they'll wear and what these _Bunker_ employees are like and whether they'll be decent players or try to cheat.

But when he opens his fridge, Derek finds a plate of leftovers that he'd planned to have tonight, which means all he has to do is shove it in the microwave to heat it up, and that leaves altogether _too much time_ for his mind to wander to places unwanted and unappreciated.

He wonders how much effort the baristas had to put in to convince Boyd to go along to the game. He wonders what Boyd is _like_ when he's with the idiots, whether he suddenly becomes much more animated and enthusiastic, or if he behaves the same as Derek experiences him. He wonders why none of the baristas are offering to give Boyd a ride home when they roped him into going along in the first place. He wonders why Boyd suddenly decided he isn't interested in catching a bus, like he does when he goes anywhere, and what made him think of _Derek_ to ask for a ride.

He wonders whether Stiles will be playing. He wonders (and doubts) if Stiles is any good. He wonders if any of the baristas know that Boyd has asked him for a ride, whether they genuinely enjoy Boyd's company, whether they enjoy _Derek's_ company or if they'd be confused and disappointed to see him show up. He wonders how long they'll play the game for. He wonders whether Stiles will manage to keep things civil during the game or if he'll attempt any dirty moves just to get a one-up on his so-called mortal enemies. He wonders what'd be an acceptable time for him to show up to give Boyd a ride.

When he returns to his couch with his plate, warmed from its stint in the microwave, he sets it on the coffee table for a moment as he reaches for his phone. He tells himself he's just doing Boyd a favour, since Boyd looked after the store today (even though Boyd gets a full wage and then some for managing it without Derek already) and that he'll just show up when the game is due to finish and wait in his car for Boyd to come over.

So, naturally, Derek arrives thirty minutes earlier than the typical lacrosse game finishes, and he strolls from the parking lot towards the lacrosse field illuminated by the towering lights, emitting the echoing noises of a game in play, and he steps between the bleachers until he's perfectly visible to the players and other spectators (and he doesn't want to hear a _word_ about it, thank you very much).

He lets his gaze sweep across the field when he pauses at the edge of the bleachers, counting four players to each team. His eyes want to linger on the players and identify each one, but he only lets himself notice that four are wearing maroon shirts and four are wearing a deep emerald. He keeps his head swivelling until he spots a cluster of people sitting on the bleachers to his left, Boyd lifting a hand to wave him over.

He recognises Boyd and Erica on one row - the blonde smirking at Derek and leaning in to whisper something to Boyd that makes his cheek twitch in a way that brings a scowl to Derek's face - and in the row behind them, arms linked and eyes focused on the game, sit Lydia and Danny. Derek makes his way up to Boyd's row and sits next to him, nodding a greeting in the group's general direction.

"Didn't expect lacrosse to be your kind of thing," Erica comments, leaning forward to see him past Boyd.

Derek chooses grumpy silence as his response, and turns back to the field in time to watch Stiles - because, really, who else is it going to be - trip over thin air and sprawl flat on his front, his helmet bouncing comically off the ground, arms caught and twisted awkwardly underneath him. His choked, pained grunt echoes up to the bleachers and Derek grits his teeth, somehow managing to be irritated by the idiot's apparent lack of coordination.

" _Dude_ , what happened? You were doing so well!" Scott's voice shouts from inside the helmet of the goalie.

"I feel like _not_ falling over for no reason should be kind of expected, not celebrated!" Isaac retorts from further ahead of Stiles' body. "I think our bar's set a little low!"

The fourth player, smaller than the rest of them and an unknown to Derek, jogs over to Stiles' crumpled body and pulls him up by the armpit, letting him lean on them while he gets his gangly legs underneath him and planted solidly on the ground again.

"He's okay!" the player calls out, lifting her hand to wave down the field at Scott.

Stiles is struggling to pick out chunks of dirt and grass from between the wires of his helmet.

"You sure? He hit his head pretty hard!" a player wearing emerald calls, leaning a hand on her hip. Isaac saunters a little closer to her and her helmet swivels to face him, bodies tilting towards each other as they speak too quiet for the others to hear.

"Really, Isaac?" Erica mutters.

"They're like Romeo and Juliet," Lydia comments nonchalantly. "They've been pining for years."

("You're gonna have to try a lot harder than that to take me out!")

"They're idiots and they're gonna ruin everything," Erica smirks bitterly. Then she throws a look over her shoulder. "Whose side are you on, anyway?"

("We don't _have_ to try, Stilinski - nine times out of ten you take _yourself_ out!")

Lydia scoffs quietly. "We're objective spectators."

"We're also above whatever petty feud they've got going on," Danny adds.

("Maybe I'm just trying to throw you off your game! Yeah, y'know, keep you on your toes, keep 'em second-guessing!")

""What about you, Derek? You're _objective_ , right?" Erica asks.

Derek continues to watch the field, ignoring the smirk in her voice and the way Boyd lowers his head and tilts his face out of Derek's peripherals.

("Shut up, Stilinski! You're a frickin' embarrassment and you know it! You don't see any of _us_ getting distracted and falling on our asses!")

"I'm not on a side," Derek bites out.

("Hey, c'mon, leave him alone, Jackson! He was doing okay!")

"Well, _Boyd's_ on our side and he's the reason you're here, right? So, that kind of puts you on our side by association," Erica counters in an overly-innocent tone. "Unless there's some other reason you're here that would determine your allegiance better?"

("Scott, _seriously_ , man, we need to set the bar a little higher!")

When Derek turns to look at Erica, he finds Boyd watching him too, an eyebrow quirked while the rest of his face reads disinterested. Derek purses his lips and lifts both his eyebrows in a silent challenge.

("Shut up, Isaac!")

Boyd lifts his other eyebrow, too. Derek glances pointedly at Erica, his chin jerking downwards in a short nod.

("Stiles, you're the one who insisted on this dumb game and _you're_ the one too busy staring off into the distance to watch where you're running!")

Boyd's eyes twitch, his eyebrows lowering a touch, and then his head tilts minutely towards the field. Derek's face hardens. He turns away from Boyd, glancing across the players still meandering around the field while they bicker back and forth. Discomfort makes his skin crawl and his throat tighten, and after a moment he pushes to his feet with the intention of walking down the stairs and heading back to his car.

Boyd's hand snatches out to catch Derek's arm just below his elbow.

("Stilinski, _wake up_!")

Derek's head swivels to the field again in time to see Stiles' helmet twist away from the bleachers at an insane speed, his feet twisting so quickly on the ground it's a wonder he doesn't trip himself up again.

"Yep, yeah, no, I'm good!" Stiles shouts out to nobody in particular, brandishing his lacrosse stick over his head, which is tilted almost parallel with the ground. "Present, teach!"

Derek sees the other two emerald shirts on the field - one of them being this Jackson guy - exchange some words before snickering and looking over at Stiles. Derek sits back down on the bench. The girl on Stiles' team offers the end of her lacrosse stick for an encouraging bump against his, and he bounces on his feet a little. The rest of the players all move back into position, ready to get the game on track again.

Boyd's fingers let go of Derek's arm, and he looks over at his employee-slash-friend - _friend_? - to find the tiniest of curls in the corner of his mouth. It's not mocking or teasing though, something a little more understanding and accepting than that. Derek's jaw clenches, but he tilts his upper body forwards until he can lean his elbows on his thighs, his hands clasping between his legs, and he returns his attention to the game.

It seems as though the majority of the players are actually all quite skilled when it comes to lacrosse. Scott's reflexes are good in the goal, though obviously not unbeatable since _The Bunker_ 's team are apparently winning, and Isaac and the young woman have an impressive amount of strength in their shots and passes, their legs carrying them rapidly up and down the field. Derek kind of gets the impression that Stiles succeeds - on the rare occurrence - out of sheer luck. His strained and strangled pants of exertion are audible even on the bleachers, his feet often tripping over themselves, his net often completely missing the ball when it's passed to him; although, even if he does groan the entire way, he can burst out a fast sprint when the occasion calls for it, and every so often he manages to catch or pass the ball successfully, usually letting out a shocked but ecstatic shout when he does.

As for the other team, Derek realises that every single one of them is a good player. They're all fast, agile, and strong, though their goalie might not be as good as Scott - that doesn't matter much, though, when _Deaton's_ team can't get close enough to make a shot. Jackson and the other two young men on the team seem obnoxiously arrogant, taunting the others every time they miss or lose the ball, clearly trying to get a rise out of them. The young woman on their team - Derek assumes it's Allison - seems focused and competent, and at least isn't a dick about winning the ball or scoring.

He didn't expect the game to be entertaining - and it isn't - but he finds himself unwittingly more on _Deaton's_ side the more the assholes from _The Bunker_ taunt and mock the others, and he can feel his fingers clenching around each other every time Isaac or the young woman look like they're about to make a shot. It actually seems like _Deaton's_ are making one last desperate push for some points, and it looks like the opposition have sensed it, judging by the way Jackson is tackling the others more and more harshly, and Derek could potentially be persuaded into admitting that he wants _Deaton's_ to pull ahead and win this thing.

When the unknown player scores, Erica jumps up from her seat and whoops loudly, clapping her hands above her head. Boyd smirks and claps his hands together a few times, too, and Lydia and Danny shout out praises for the young woman who Derek learns is called Kira. Derek doesn't move a muscle, but he does feel some satisfaction deep down inside when he watches Jackson wring his lacrosse stick angrily.

"Hey, Jackson!" Stiles shouts, lifting a hand to gain the opposing player's attention. Derek grits his teeth to stop himself from shouting at Stiles to shut up, because he _knows_ the barista is about to say something stupid. "Your boyfriend _sucks_!"

And even Derek, who has only seen as much of Jackson as one can while he wears a helmet and plays lacrosse for ten minutes, can tell that the guy is _pissed_. His entire body goes still, his helmet angled towards Stiles, and then he rolls his shoulders back and ducks his chin down to his chest, scraping his foot back on the grass to kick up soil.

"Shit," Erica mutters.

Derek straightens his back, his hands untangling as they slide up his legs, his eyes glued to Jackson when the next play starts. It's glaringly obvious that Jackson is looking for an opening to go for Stiles, an excuse to tackle him, and normally he wouldn't get one. But Isaac - the _idiot_ (or maybe he does it on purpose) - tosses the ball to Stiles while Kira sprints further up the field, and Jackson _charges_.

Derek is watching Stiles so closely he literally sees the moment the barista's shoulder pops out of its socket. The sound of his body hitting the ground echoes around the empty bleachers, his clipped yell following milliseconds after, and Derek's body pushes to his feet, tapping his knuckles against Boyd's arm as he strides to the stairs and stomps down them.

Stiles had rolled with the momentum of his fall and got back up to his knees, his lacrosse stick abandoned on the field as his hand cradles his dislocated (Derek hopes that's all it is) shoulder. He has pushed to his feet and stumbled towards the edge of the field by the time Derek is marching from the bottom of the bleachers towards him, Boyd close at his heels, and Scott and Isaac are both sprinting to catch up with him. Scott reaches him first, tearing his own helmet off before helping Stiles take his off, too. Derek adjusts his trajectory when he's satisfied that Scott isn't going to make the injury worse, instead striding towards Jackson as the guy removes his helmet and rolls his eyes with a scoff, sauntering towards Stiles.

Stiles has collapsed onto his ass on the edge of the field, groaning out curses and complaints of pain as Scott frets over him, and Derek walks past them both, his hand lifting and reaching out towards Jackson even when the guy completely ignores Derek's existence, his face contorting in preparation of delivering some kind of taunt, Derek imagines. His words get caught in his throat with indignation when Derek's hand slaps against his shoulder, his fingers curling round the muscle to abruptly stop Jackson from moving any closer.

"What the hell are you doing, man? Get your hand off of me," Jackson demands aggressively, looking up at Derek with a face of disgust. He tries to shake off Derek's hand, but Derek's fingers just clamp harder around his shoulder and keep him rooted to the spot.

Derek glares down at him, his lip twitching into a snarl as the younger continues to push against him and throw judging, arrogant, pompous sneers at him.

"Who even are you?" Jackson snaps loudly. "What the hell is your problem?"

" _His_ problem?" Isaac's voice snarls from behind Derek, and Derek suddenly gets the impression that Isaac really _was_ just being a clueless idiot when he passed to Stiles. "What the hell is _your_ problem, Whittemore? You dislocated his fucking shoulder!"

Derek's only warning is the subtle panic that flashes through Jackson's eyes before Isaac's trying to storm past him, reaching out for Jackson with presumably-violent intentions. Derek's free hand snatches out and slaps against Isaac's chest, fingers burrowing into the material of his maroon shirt to toss him backwards a couple steps. He hears a small scuffle and assumes that Boyd is containing the other barista to prevent him from attacking Jackson, which lets Derek return his full attention to the cause of Stiles' injury.

He takes a menacing step closer to Jackson, feeling nothing but sadistic satisfaction in the sudden clenching of the younger's jaw, the startled size of his eyes, the frantic attempt at pulling away from him, and curls his fingers into the shoulder of Jackson's shirt to yank him another step closer. "Walk it off," Derek bites out quietly, scowling down at him. Then he shoves him away, managing not to smirk as Jackson stumbles over his own feet into one of his teammates waiting to catch him. The teammate glares at Derek through the wires of his helmet, but starts to lead Jackson away from them.

"Ow, ow, _ow_ , Scott! I don't know what the hell you're doing but you better _stop_ or I'm gonna throw up all over you," Stiles is rushing out, his voice strained, when Derek turns around to look at the group.

He's still on his ass on the ground with Scott hovering behind his shoulder, but now Erica's standing at his feet with her arms crossed and a furious glare on her face, and Isaac's stood behind Scott but glaring over at Jackson and the opposing team. Boyd is a step or two away from Isaac, glancing at the barista cautiously as if waiting for him to spring into an attacking charge, while Kira and Allison are stood together trying to remember how to reset a dislocated shoulder.

"Sorry, sorry!" Scott whimpers, face crumpling desperately. "I thought I'd seen my mom fix something like this before."

"Well, that was _definitely_ gonna make things worse," Stiles snaps.

"Does this mean we lost?" Erica demands quietly.

"What? No, no, I'm fine!" Stiles stutters indignantly, scrambling to get his feet under him again, but Scott wasn't expecting him to move and still has his hand on Stiles' injured shoulder. "Ah, _shit_!" Stiles yelps.

"Sorry!" Scott shouts, stepping back with his hands lifted in front of him in a defensive manner.

Derek scowls and steps towards them. "Boyd, take Stiles' place," he says. "Erica, get him some water."

"Wait, what? Take my place? _What_? No!" Stiles stammers, glancing up at Derek and then frantically between Boyd and Scott. "No, I'm fine! I'm playing, I'm fine!"

"I got this," Boyd tells the panicking barista, snatching his helmet up from the ground before Stiles can stop him. He hits Isaac in the chest with it and jerks his head towards the field, encouraging Isaac into a jog with him out towards Stiles' abandoned lacrosse stick.

"We've got, like, twenty minutes left!" Stiles shouts desperately. "I'm seeing this game through! I'm _winning this game_!"

"Stiles!" Scott shouts, pressing on his uninjured shoulder to keep him down on the ground. "Derek's right, man, you can't keep playing with that. None of us should be - we _should_ be taking you to the hospital."

"Don't you dare!" Stiles shouts, pointing an enraged finger at Scott. "You are _not_ to abandon this game, McCall. I'm frickin' serious, dude!"

" _Stiles_ , it's a _lacrosse game_ -" Scott tries.

Stiles' mouth drops open, his eyes bugging out of his skull as his head swivels madly in the most _dramatic_ depiction of offense Derek has ever seen. "Fuck you, Scott!" he settles on. "This is _war_ -"

When Scott looks like he's going to continue the ridiculous argument, Derek takes another step closer and snaps, "Scott!" When the puppy-dog eyes focus up on him, he tilts his head towards the field. "Finish the game. I'll help Stiles."

Scott glances between them for a moment while Stiles splutters indignantly, and then mutters another apology and pulls his helmet back on, jogging out towards his goal again. Derek stoops to get a grip of Stiles' good arm, pulling the barista up onto his feet and clenching his jaw when Stiles stumbles into his side from the sudden ascension. When he turns to lead Stiles towards the bleachers, he realises Erica hasn't moved.

"Do you want a little nurse's outfit?" she smirks.

Derek glares at her. "Water. Now."

She grins widely, then, and turns to walk along the bleachers to a clump of duffle bags.

Derek pulls Stiles along at his side, walking to the bleachers on his left where there won't be an audience. He manoeuvres Stiles to face him, catching sight of the barista's big, brown eyes and open, pink lips, before he shoves him down to the first row of the bleachers. Stiles slumps onto the bench with an _oomf_ and a wince, moving to cradle his shoulder again.

"Move your hand," Derek says as he steps closer, their knees almost touching.

Stiles blinks up at him stupidly. "What? What are you gonna do?"

"I'm gonna fix your shoulder," Derek frowns.

Stiles scoffs, his mouth stretching into his lopsided grin full of attitude. "Uh, my shoulder's fine. I don't know what you're talking about. I should probably get back to the game."

Derek plants his hand on Stiles' chest and shoves him back down when he tries to stand up. "Now," he bites out.

"Dude, I'm _fine_!" Stiles protests, his uninjured arm waving around. "Seriously, it's fine! I'm fine! Now let me go so I can get back on the field and win the game! They need me."

Derek tries not to smirk at that. " _You_ need to let me fix your shoulder."

Stiles' head drops back, exposing a long neck with a prominent vein running up the side of it, and groans deep and long. Derek _glares_. The barista's skin is flushed and sweaty, save for his cheeks which have gone pale with the pain he's stubbornly ignoring, and when he lets his chin drop back to his chest, Derek eyes the sweaty mess of dark hair plastered in surprising curls to his forehead. Stiles grimaces, one eye squeezing shut, and looks up at Derek with his mouth still agape.

"Please, man, I gotta get out there and finish the game," Stiles tries, his tone drained, as he shakes his head and gestures helplessly at the field.

"They're taking care of it."

Stiles sighs harshly, his mouth snapping shut and chin dropping low again. "I wanna be out there," he mutters.

Derek's jaw clenches. He squats in front of the barista, tilting his head lower to try and catch Stiles' downcast gaze, his eyebrows lifting expectantly. When the warm brown reluctantly looks back at him, Derek exhales quietly through his nose. "Your shoulder's dislocated, Stiles," he says, his voice unintentionally quiet. "The longer you fight me, the harder it's gonna be to fix it. I need to do it now."

Stiles winces, pain flashing across his face, and Derek frowns. "Do you know what you're doing?" Stiles asks reluctantly.

Derek nods, pulling his head away from Stiles' again. "My college roommate wanted to be a sports physician. He taught me a way to fix dislocated shoulders."

Stiles' face slackens with feigned nonchalance, gesturing his good arm at his injured shoulder. "You gonna pop it back into place really violently like they do on TV?"

Derek smirks. "No. The method he taught me is more gentle than that."

"Oh, thank god," Stiles breathes, slumping slightly before hissing when he accidentally moves his shoulder.

Derek reaches out to press his palm against Stiles' chest, ignoring the suddenly-startled expression on the barista's face as he gently pushes him upright. "You need to sit up straight," he tells him. "And relax."

Stiles swallows, wide eyes staring at Derek. "Uh, right, sure. Relax," he mutters, his gaze slipping off Derek's face to somewhere past his head. "Relax. While I leave the fate of _Deaton's_ to a bunch of idiots. Sure."

Derek bites back a smile. "Take deep breaths."

Stiles' gaze snaps back to him with a scowl. "Why? Is this gonna hurt?" he asks, slumping again.

Derek takes a breath to calm himself and prays for patience. His hand is still on Stiles' chest, so he presses again and encourages the barista back into an upright position. "It's just gonna feel a little uncomfortable," he explains. "The deep breathing keeps your body relaxed."

Stiles nods distractedly, frowning as he stretches his neck to try and see the field over Derek's shoulder.

"Sit still," Derek warns.

He reaches out to take Stiles' upper arm in one hand, holding it gently so that it points straight down, and uses the other hand to take a hold of Stiles' forearm and slowly lift it towards his own body until it's at a 90-degree angle. Stiles' features flinch slightly with the movement, but his eyes are still flicking around as they follow the path of the ball. Derek quickly and lightly swaps the placement of his hands so that his left can gently lift Stiles' hand to press against his right bicep, and he tries to ignore the way Stiles' fingers twitch against his arm as his wide gaze drops back to Derek's face.

"What're you doing?" the barista asks quietly.

Derek glances at his face. "The Cunningham Technique." He shuffles closer cautiously so to not jostle Stiles' arm now that it's connected to his body. "Keep your hand against my arm like this."

"Uh, right, yeah, okay," Stiles mumbles.

Derek moves his left hand to loosely cup Stiles' shoulder, and lifts his right hand over the top of Stiles' forearm, just below his elbow, to put some gentle weight on the arm. "You ever heard of The Cunningham Technique?" he asks quietly, because the silence is crawling across his skin and burrowingly restlessly in his muscles.

"Uh, I think I maybe looked at it one time on a deep-dive about sports-related injuries, but it would've been at, like, 4am so, y'know, not the optimal time for processing new information," Stiles mutters.

Derek tilts his head concedingly. "It's pretty simple. You position the arm like this, and the other person massages the dislocated shoulder and upper arm until the joint relaxes and moves back into place."

Stiles clears his throat, glancing at Derek's hand on his shoulder as his eyebrows twitch upwards. "Massage. Right, yeah. I remember it said something about not popping back into place." He glances over Derek's shoulder at the game, but when Derek starts massaging, his gaze focuses on him again. "But we'll know when it's fixed, won't we?" he asks.

Derek nods. "Yeah, we'll know."

"Well, it's not _not_ painful."

Derek glances at his face, searching for an indication of how much pain Stiles is in while he softens his fingers as much as he can. "Do you want me to stop?" Derek frowns.

Stiles looks at him and blinks. "Stop?" he croaks. "Uh, no. No, thank you. I don't want- you don't need to stop. It's fine. It's good. It feels good. You feel- I'm fine. You don't need to-"

"Stiles," Derek says firmly, interrupting the barista's torrent of nonsense. "Deep breaths, straight back."

Stiles nods dumbly and takes a deep breath as he sits up straight again. His face twitches a little and his eyes find the lacrosse game still playing on the field.

Derek's jaw clenches for a moment, trying to ignore the urge to memorise the feeling of Stiles' fingers against his bicep and realise just how _long_ they are. "Tell me about this step in your plan," he mutters.

Stiles glances at him. "The step?" he repeats, and then he scoffs and gives Derek that lopsided smirk again. "It's Step Twelve: L is for Lacrosse, Baby."

And with Stiles so close, with his fingers splayed across Derek's bicep and his forearm under Derek's wrist and his shoulder under Derek's gently-squeezing fingers, Derek can't stop the twitch of the corner of his mouth into his cheek.

Stiles' eyebrows shoot into his hairline, his smirk widening into a mad grin. " _Wow_ ," he mutters lowly. "You're smiling. That's a smile, isn't it?" Derek rolls his eyes, trying to school his features again. "I had no idea you could smile," Stiles continues in a curious tone. "I also didn't know you could wear anything other than black," he muses, and his thumb strokes - _actually fucking strokes_ \- back and forth on the olive-coloured sleeve covering Derek's bicep. "Or that you had such gentle hands. Or that you'd know how to fix a dislocated shoulder in a way that _wasn't_ just jamming it back into the joint."

"I didn't know your hair could _not_ look like a bird's nest," is the best retort Derek can come up with, considering the circumstances (and, yes, but also _no_ , the circumstances are throwing him off his game).

Stiles frowns confusedly, his nose crinkling and lips parting. "What? How does it look right now?"

Derek moves his gaze to Stiles' upper arm where his fingers are methodically working the muscle (and he has to physically bite down on his tongue to stop words from spilling out of his mouth so he has time to consider his answer). "Different."

Stiles blinks at him, face loosening, eyes flicking over Derek's face. He can hear Stiles' shaky breath skimming his pink lips. "Good different?"

Derek blinks and meets Stiles' gaze, his brown irises shining rich and deep in the waning light. The movement of Derek's fingers falter, his eyes trailing up from Stiles' to look over his hair again. It's wet with sweat and plastered to his forehead, but there's an endearing curl in the short, choppy length, and it frames the barista's face attractively, bringing out the dark features of his eyebrows and eyes. Derek's eyes fall back to Stiles' just in time to catch the barista's gaze snapping back up from somewhere lower on Derek's face, the long fingers on his bicep twitching, his pink lips shining invitingly after his tongue swipes quickly across them, and Derek feels the hairs on the back of his neck stand up as a gentle shiver whispers down his spine.

"Thirsty?"

As soon as he hears Erica's voice, Derek anticipates Stiles' startled flinch and manages to run his left hand up the barista's shoulder until his thumb and forefinger curve around the side of Stiles' neck to press firmly down and prevent as much movement as he can in the injured joint. The frightened yelp Stiles bites out at Erica's sudden appearance morphs into something a little different when Derek's fingers press into the side of his neck, and Derek's body instantly tenses.

"Stay still," he grinds out.

"Sorry!" Stiles squeaks, and then clears his throat and tries again. "Sorry. Shit. Don't _do_ that, Erica."

"I've been standing here for, like, ten seconds and neither of you noticed me," she retorts.

Derek keeps his gaze focused on Stiles' shoulder and continues massaging the joint back into place.

"What, you were just watching us talk?" Stiles asks, uneasy.

"No, actually, I _wasn't_ perving on your little moment. I was too busy watching Boyd throw the ball into the net."

Derek is glaring at Stiles' joint, his jaw clenched, but he anticipates more movement from the barista. "Don't move."

"What? Boyd scored? _When_? Oh my god, I _missed it_?" Stiles splutters, his free hand flailing since the rest of his body can't.

"Well, seems like you were too busy staring-"

"What's the score?" Derek grunts.

"I lost count," Erica replies, and her smirk is audible even if Derek refuses to move his gaze to see it. "But we're even. There's five minutes left."

"We've got a chance?" Stiles demands loudly, disbelieving and yet painfully hopeful. "Holy shit, dude, we've got a chance!"

Derek can't resist glancing at Stiles' face, finding the barista staring down at him with wide eyes dancing with excitement, his grin stretching wide into his cheeks and eyebrows lifted high on his forehead.

"You're still not playing."

Stiles' face goes slack with irritation. "Thanks for rubbing it in, asshole."

Derek smirks coldly. Stiles frowns gently and returns his attention to the game.

Derek drops his left hand from Stiles' shoulder. "How does it feel?" he asks.

Stiles rolls it tentatively, refusing to meet Derek's eyes. "Uh, fine, I think. Thanks."

Derek frowns, but he slowly retracts his hands from Stiles' shoulder and forearm, watching his face closely in case he shows signs of it _not_ being fine. But his attention is now fully back on the game and Derek figures he's outlived his usefulness. There's a dull ache in his thighs when he stands up from his squat and a whisper of cold air over his bicep after Stiles' fingers slip away, and he turns his back on the bleachers to watch the end of the game, crossing his arms over his chest.

His mood is turning sour again and he finds himself hoping that _someone_ \- no matter which side - scores another goal so the game doesn't get dragged on, and hoping that Boyd won't want to linger long after the game finishes, and hoping that he doesn't have to go into _Deaton's_ again for the rest of his life, preferably (and hoping that Jackson will trip and break his nose or his arm or his leg or his _everything_ ).

With half a minute to spare, Kira scores the winning goal. Derek blocks out Stiles' ecstatic celebration as he runs out onto the field with his arm cradled protectively against his chest to meet his teammates. Derek slips his hand into his pocket to retrieve his car keys and notices Boyd glancing at them, his face as unreadable as ever, and sees Erica in his peripheral vision spot them as well.

"It's lucky you know how to fix a dislocated shoulder," she tells him. "Stiles is lucky you came."

Derek ignores her.

Isaac has his arm hooked around Boyd's neck, shouting praises excitedly with Scott beaming at his side and Stiles laughing with Kira behind them as they all walk over to the edge of the field. Lydia runs out from the bleachers to meet Allison while Danny heads over towards Jackson and the other two, and Erica sighs in Derek's direction before she jogs to meet her friends.

"Dude, you were a miracle-worker out there!" Scott laughs around Isaac to Boyd.

"Uh, right here, Scotty!" Stiles retorts indignantly.

Scott winces through his grin.

"Thanks," Boyd says, and he actually _smiles_.

And, for some reason, Derek feels _guilty_.

"And _Kira_!" Isaac calls over his shoulder. "What a finish!"

"Oh my god, I didn't think I was gonna make it!" Kira gushes.

"Oh, by the way," Scott says, head swivelling until his gaze lands on Derek. "Derek, this is Kira. Kira, this is Derek - Boyd's friend."

And the introduction catches Derek off-guard - because he's Boyd's _friend_ , not his _boss_ \- so all he does is nod.

Luckily, the whole group of them don't seem to want to linger, and they all start heading back to the parking lot. Derek hears Scott tell Stiles that his mom can have a look at his shoulder, and for a moment imagines himself giving Stiles his number to let him know later how his shoulder is; but he remembers the feeling of Stiles' fingers and the way his tongue had licked his lips and quickly banishes the imagining.

He and Boyd get into Derek's car and pull out of the parking lot, and all Derek says during the ride is "You played well," and "See you tomorrow."

And all Boyd says is "Thanks," and "Thanks for the ride."

And, later, when Derek is lying on his back in his empty bed with an arm thrown behind his head, staring up at the ceiling in the darkness, his phone pings with a text from Boyd.

" _Stiles' shoulder is gonna be fine._ "

Derek doesn't answer (but he rolls onto his side and closes his eyes).


	6. Step Thirteen: M is for Murder

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Derek has visitors.
> 
> Stiles is helpful.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone leaving kudos!! Sorry for the delay with this chapter - work's been hectic and I've been exhausted by the time I get home. I hope you enjoy and please leave feedback if you have any!!

It's a Thursday, which means at 10am, or roughly thereabouts, a small truck pulls up on the street outside and Derek moves to open the door, kicking a doorstop under the metal frame to hold it in place. The truck driver jumps down from his cab and spins his baseball cap to point backwards on his head, keeping the lip out of his way when he opens up the back of the truck and starts hauling out boxes. Derek has nothing better to do, and has always hated the thought of standing around while someone else does all the heavy lifting, so he steps out onto the sidewalk and moves to the stack of boxes steadily growing.

"Hey, man," the driver lifts his chin in greeting, his navy shirt loose, ripped, and frayed - though Derek presumes it's designed that way.

"Theo," Derek replies, nodding. "How many you got?"

"Just five this week."

Derek bends at the knees and wraps his arms around a box, fitting his fingers under it to get a good grip before lifting it and the box on top of it into the air, straightening his legs again. He turns and carries them both through the open doorway into his store, depositing them in front of the counter at the far-end. Theo is a couple of steps behind him, pausing before the counter with another two boxes in his arms until Derek side-steps him to let him in.

"Boyd," Theo greets, his voice a little strained from the weight of the boxes.

Derek hears him set the boxes down next to the others, and then his footsteps follow Derek back out onto the sidewalk as Derek moves to pick up the last box and Theo closes up the truck's back doors.

"I finished the book," Theo announces, his tone as flat as it always is in some effort to maintain a detached, distant attitude.

Derek hears the cab door open and swing shut again as he carries the last box into the store and slides it on top of the two that Theo had brought in. "What did you think?" he asks, genuine curiosity tinging his words. He turns around and leans one hand against the counter while the other reaches out to accept the book Theo's handing back to him, the younger man's face guarded in a slightly colder manner than usual. Derek's eyes narrow.

"It was well-written and definitely not boring," Theo shrugs, averting his gaze to look down the aisles of books as he crosses his arms over his broad chest.

Derek shares a quiet, wondering look with Boyd. "But?" he prompts.

Theo clears his throat and turns back to look at Derek, his mouth pulling into his cheek humourlessly. "Maybe thriller isn't the right genre for me," he says, feigning nonchalance. "Doesn't really have the same vibe to it as a mystery or adventure novel when you're reading it in a truck cab at 1am on the side of the road."

Derek smirks, to let Theo protect his reputation and pride (he's no stranger to putting up a front to hide his true emotions, after all, and he knows it can be hard work), and pushes off the counter to return the borrowed book to its appropriate shelf.

Theo had been delivering the book shipments for a few months when Derek first offered to lend him a book to keep him company on his journeys. The young man had fitted in pretty well with Derek's preferred methods of dealing with social interactions, exchanging short, succinct communications and never lingering longer than he was welcome, but Derek had learned that he spent almost every day of the week in his truck, hired by all sorts of companies to make the regular runs from one business to another - one of which brought new books to Derek's store. He had mentioned spending a lot of the time in his cab without being in transit, and when Derek had asked what he did to entertain himself for those periods, Theo had shrugged, and Derek had almost instinctively asked if Theo wanted to take a book away with him to fill the lonely hours.

It was at that point that Derek had started to think that Theo might have had a rough childhood, because it seemed like the driver had not only missed out on almost every single classic book there was, but he also didn't seem to recognise the _names_ of any of them, as if he'd been raised in a cave somewhere without any access to pop-culture of any kind. Derek wasn't really sure whether shoving the classics down Theo's throat was the kindest thing to do to someone who'd potentially been deprived of ever even figuring out their own tastes, so he had instead decided to pick out the most representative books he could think of from each genre and advised Theo to get a feel for the quirks and tropes of the genres and figure out those he liked and those he didn't.

Theo has a kind of dark, twisted humour and some pretty gnarly stories from his time as a truck driver, so Derek had thought that horror wouldn't be able to scare him. But Theo had come back on his fortnightly run with an almost-untouched book in hand and had been rigid with discomfort when he explained that horror is a genre he doesn't like. The book had been about some creepy scientists kidnapping and experimenting on people, and Derek had made a mental note to never hand over a book with anything close to a similar plotline for as long as he loaned Theo books.

He'd thought that this book from the thriller section was different enough from the crossed-off horror stories that Theo could potentially enjoy it, but clearly he was wrong about this one, too. At least, this time, Theo had actually finished the book.

"How d'you feel about a trilogy?" Derek asks, rounding the end of the aisle to approach the adventure section.

He glances up towards the counter and catches a flash of apprehension on Theo's face. "You gonna make me read all three?" he replies.

Derek pulls _The Fellowship of the Ring_ off of the shelf and walks back up to the truck driver, offering the book out to him. Theo takes it and runs his fingers over the artwork on the cover, before flipping the book to skim over the blurb.

"Don't let the language distract from the story," Derek advises. "It was published over 60 years ago, so it's a little different from the other books you've read."

Theo scoffs quietly. "Am I gonna understand a word of it?" he mutters.

Derek feels something that might be pity, but he ensures he doesn't let it show on his face or leak into his voice. "Just focus on the characters' journey," he suggests, crossing his arms. "And don't worry about it being a series. If you don't like it, we'll try something else."

Theo lets out a breath and taps the book, lifting his gaze to purse his lips awkwardly at Derek. "Alright. Thanks, man."

And now they're _both_ uncomfortable. "You got your usual run?" Derek asks to distract them.

"Uh, no, actually," Theo replies, his body language relaxing. "You know _The Nook_? They shut down last week, so they're off the list."

Derek frowns. _The Nook_ is - or, rather, _was_ \- a popular bookstore in the next town over. "What happened?"

"Something about the rent of the space going up too high," Theo shrugs.

Derek bows his head and Boyd leans against the counter, a frown pulling at his lips. It's always a loss when a bookstore is forced to close. Derek knows he's lucky to have lasted so long.

"Alright, I'll see you in a couple weeks," Theo says, having reached his own personal limit for social interaction. He lifts the book in a wave as he backs up towards the doorway, Derek and Boyd both nodding their farewells, and then he slips out of the store and wanders back to his truck, spinning his cap the right way round again. Derek kicks the doorstop out from under the frame of the door and lets it swing shut, the bell tinkling cheerfully.

"Do you think that could happen to us?" Boyd asks when it's just the two of them again.

Derek glances at him as he walks along the counter to open the boxes Theo delivered. "No."

Boyd follows and starts organising the books Derek brings out into piles. "What makes you so sure?"

Derek rips the tape off the rest of the box so he can flatpack the cardboard for recycling. "My uncle's the landlord," he answers simply. Boyd merely quirks an eyebrow in reply before turning his attention to the books.

They pile up any and all kids' books separate from the rest of the piles for their scheduled visit later in the day, and organise the rest by genre. When they run out of space on the counter, Derek picks up a couple of piles and starts to distribute them onto the appropriate shelves, maintaining the alphabetical order of his aisles with diligence. There are a range of books that haven't been bought, loaned, or even inspected in months, shelved in a dusty bookcase in the back of Derek's head to keep an eye on week-by-week, and he seeks a few out through memory alone and packs them into one of the two cardboard boxes he left built and empty at the counter. When he slots them into the box, they slip off the bookshelf in his mind and fall into an abyss called _donated-and-forgotten-about_.

Lunchtime rolls around, a certain tension winding and twisting through Derek's muscles until his back is nearly rigid with dread and apprehension, and he sends a covert glance up at the clock on the wall and then down to Boyd's hunched frame over the counter, one hand scribbling notes while the other palms a book open. Derek's jaw muscle ticks, his fingers faltering in their gentle push of a book into its _correct_ position in the alphabetical order after a bored customer had slid it back without a _smidgeon_ of respect for Derek's very important system.

It takes Boyd another three minutes (and another seven glances from Derek, which he only casts because he is certain Boyd is too engrossed to notice) before the younger finally stands up straight, rolling his shoulders and arching his chest to crack his back, and sends his own glance up at the clock hanging above the doorway to the staffroom. He slips a bookmark into the open pages below him and then lets the book flop closed of its own volition, tidying his scattered notes into a loose pile next to the book. But it's only when he steps to the coatrack and snatches his leather jacket from the hook that Derek finally feels relief pulse through his veins, ebbing into his muscles and unwinding all the tension that had rooted in him.

"I'm going to _Deaton's_ ," Boyd says unnecessarily - because it _is_ unnecessary; Derek wouldn't think for a _second_ that his employee would be going anywhere other than his favourite coffee shop for lunch - and he pauses with his fingers on the doorhandle to send a look at Derek over the top of the aisles between them.

Derek blinks and allows an eyebrow to twitch upwards slightly. The tips of his pointer and middle fingers are pressed lightly against the spine of a book, his thumb balanced on the edge of the shelf, his ring finger and pinky both dangling limply. His other hand hangs at his side, and the fingers twitch where even he can't see.

Boyd watches him for another moment, his expression loose but unreadable, their shared inertia inviting a strange, loaded atmosphere; and then, so quickly it threatens to catch Derek off-guard, Boyd blinks, swivels his head, and opens the door to walk out of the bookstore, the bell tinkling above his head.

Derek's chest deflates with a soft, drawn-out exhale through his nostrils, the pads of his fingers slipping off the spine of the book. He can feel his thoughts itching to chase after forbidden topics, like kids chasing embers off a bonfire, so he strides up to the opposite end of the counter from where Boyd's college work waits and he wiggles the mouse of the computer to bring the monitor back to life. The keyboard clacks loud and satisfying (he's always loved the old, loud keyboards) when he enters the password to sign in, and the login screen makes way for the open browser page he'd abandoned about fifteen minutes before Theo had arrived.

He sighs quietly to himself, though not in a negative way, really, and resumes his perusing of beanbags, floor cushions, and low chairs. He's had an idea fermenting in the back of his mind for a month or two now, still blurry around the edges and a little wispy, but it sometimes solidifies in an imagining of the aisles brought closer to the counter to make room along the bottom of the store, along the wall of windows, for a space for people to sit down and read. He doesn't really know where the idea has come from, since he's never felt anything other than approval whenever customers promptly leave the building after selecting a book to read, and the thought of him purposefully creating a space for them to _linger_ after purchasing - or before, he supposes, if they wanted to trial the book first before committing - seems out of character, even to himself.

But the idea has only developed from _Hey, look, there's space between the counter and the aisles that could be used elsewhere for something_ , to _Maybe some mustard and some olive and some maroon and some navy seats and maybe a rug and maybe some tiny kids' chairs_ in the space of a month, month-and-a-half, and an idea that develops like that is usually an idea that Derek follows through on. Sometimes he has ideas that float through his mind like smoke, illusive and too vague to make sense of, and they tend to evaporate after a week or two - every other idea just floats in, starts to take shape, and then solidifies into a plan, a reality, and an achievement. So, basically, he's going to need to resign himself to the fact that sometime soon he's going to have customers _hanging out_ in the bookstore with him and Boyd.

When his employee returns with their paninis and coffees, Derek's concentration wavers for the briefest of moments (enough to wonder who made Boyd's order today) before returning to the rough sketch he's started on a sheet of paper next to the mouse. Boyd moves back to his collegework, and the two of them scratch with pencil and pen on sheets against the wooden surface of the counter in a comfortable silence, Boyd's music gently beating in the background.

At 3pm, the bell tinkles again. Derek hears the newcomers greet Boyd and moves into the main space from the staffroom, nodding at them when they look over at him.

"Hey, Derek," Brett says, hands tucked comfortably in the pockets of his bomber jacket. His sister, Lori, is at his elbow, smiling past his arm towards Derek, too. There's a box at their feet and Brett nudges it with his foot. "We managed to track down each one, this time," he comments wryly. "The kids are running out of hiding places."

Derek knows he's making a joke of it because the two of them had felt horrible a couple of weeks ago when they hadn't been able to find all of the books Derek had sent away with them to return them to the store. But Derek feels guilty about them feeling bad, because, really, there are worse places for kids' books to end up stolen for than an orphanage. He'd much rather the kids secretively hid the books they couldn't bear parting with than for them to have no books at all, or have their treasured items ripped from their hands just because Satomi and her orphanage hadn't actually bought them - and he's pretty sure customers aren't going to throw a hissy fit because the book they'd had their eye on was now unavailable because it was keeping an orphaned child company (and if they did, Derek would happily toss them out onto the street and politely tell them to _go fuck themselves_ ).

"You sure none of them wanted to keep any?" he asks, crossing his arms over his chest.

Lori smiles warmly, and it makes him want to close up the way it always does. "They're excited to see what new ones we bring back in exchange for returning these ones," she says.

Derek nods and moves out from behind the counter. "Well, you can see if there's anything you want to keep from this box," he says, uncrossing an arm to gesture at the box he's set aside to donate to the local charity shop. "See if there's anything Satomi would like, too."

Lori's face brightens with pleasant surprise and she nods, slipping past her brother to do as Derek offered.

"Anyone looking for anything in particular?" Derek then asks Brett, leaning down to scoop up the returned box into his arms.

Brett follows him down the aisles towards the kids' section. "Yeah, I think there was something about a sequel to a story about an elephant walking a tightrope?"

Derek bites back a smile. He had bought the sequel in special for the one kid with the obsession with the elephant stories. The box thuds quietly on the floor when he drops it at the foot of the kids' shelves, and he reaches a hand out to pull a small trolley closer to Brett.

"These came in fresh today," he tells the younger man. "Help yourself to anything from this and the shelves."

Brett opens his mouth to reply, but the bell tinkles as the door opens again, and something freezing cold (or searing hot - he's not entirely sure) surges up Derek's spine to the back of his neck, goosebumps erupting over his skin as his hairs stand on end. His entire body goes rigid, his jaw clenching and brow furrowing into a scowl so harsh it catches Brett by surprise, his usually-controlled expression going slack with wary shock.

"-just ridiculous. I mean, can you imagine if everything was named like that? Life would be so _frickin' dull_ , man."

"I'm sorry, is this conversation supposed to be _interesting_?"

Derek's lips press against each other so hard he's sure the colour's been pushed out of them, the skin around his nostril curling upwards in a snarl. Even from this distance, he can _sense_ the sharp breath Stiles is sucking in to fuel the indignant retort he'll then toss back at Isaac, and the thought of Stiles _stealing the air in Derek's bookstore_ for such _stupid_ purposes makes his blood boil.

He twists on his feet, fists clenching at his sides, and spots Stiles and Isaac angling away from him towards Boyd at the counter, though Stiles' head is pointing at Isaac's, and Isaac's is pointedly _not_ pointing at Stiles'. Derek can only see the back of Stiles' head from here, and even _that_ image hits his chest like a train, slamming a sharp exhale out of his body.

Stiles is here, in his _store_ , in his safe, sacred space, and Derek feels a little violated, a little vulnerable, and it's _not good_. He hasn't seen the barista since the lacrosse game just over a week ago, because Boyd has been doing the lunchrun every day just to get a break from his collegework, and he _hadn't wanted to_ , especially not like this. This is _his_ place, his territory, and Stiles coming into it _should_ have been something he was in complete control of, should've been something he had planned and _allowed_ and been able to prepare for; but Stiles has just _sauntered_ in as if it's perfectly reasonable for him to have done so without Derek's permission or invitation (and, _yes, okay,_ Derek _knows_ that it _is_ reasonable) and it has Derek's skin alight with tension.

So he leaves Brett standing there with the kids' books without so much as a polite excusal, and he marches towards the two _idiots_ who have disrupted his Thursday afternoon. "What the hell are you doing here?" he hisses quietly when he gets within earshot of Stiles (and prays desperately that Lori can't hear him).

Stiles' mouth snaps shut with a _clack_ , his head swivelling quickly to look over his shoulder at Derek (and it's _definitely_ a searing heat that blazes its way up his spine and, actually, all across his entire body). Stiles hasn't put as much product in his hair today, and the dark mess is more subdued because of it, some locks falling dangerously close to hanging over his forehead in that way that frames his face so alluringly. His sideburns look a little overgrown, curling in towards his ears in a way that _must_ be tickling the barista's skin (Derek only wants to brush the hair out of his ear because seeing it like that is giving _him_ phantom niggling in his own ear), and Derek's nails bite harder into his palms when his eyes catch the slight dusting of stubble along Stiles' jawline, curving up over his mouth and spreading down his neck. All of the extra darkness on the young man's face only serves to highlight his _eyes_ even more, wide and blinking stupidly up at Derek with a warmth that doesn't make sense (and he doesn't deserve).

And then Stiles' forehead flattens, his head tilting, and he levels Derek with a pointed look. "Dude. _Books_? Seriously? You start up a bookstore and you decide to call it _Books_?" he laments, as if Derek's _one job_ was to name his store something that would impress Stiles and Stiles alone, and he's failed monumentally. "I figured you were all brawn and no brains, but, I mean, _come on_ , man. Where's your sense of wonder? Your humour?"

And, for a moment, Derek _humours_ the image of himself punching that malcontented twist of Stiles' eyebrows right off his stupid face. "At least it can't be misinterpreted as advertising a man's _balls_ ," he snaps quietly.

The offended indignation that crumples Stiles' face is _beyond_ dramatic, considering the fact that the barista has battered his way into Derek's peaceful Thursday afternoon and _instantly_ insulted the store Derek _never invited him to enter_.

"Take that back right now!"

Derek takes a menacing step closer. " _No_ ," he growls out.

Stiles steps into his space, refusing to back down, and his eyes dance with a sudden excitement, though his mouth and eyebrows are all twisted and furrowed and furious. "You think I'm scared of you, big guy? Huh? You think I won't drag you outside and beat your ass for even _thinking_ anything bad about _Deaton's_?"

Derek's mouth widens into his cheeks, giving Stiles a tight-lipped smile under eyes that he's sure are still blazing with anger. And, honestly, thank _god_ Lori chooses that moment to speak up, because Derek was _stupidly_ close to saying something like _I'd like to see you try_ , and he honestly (truly, seriously) isn't sure how he wanted Stiles to react to that.

"Hey, Derek, can I take this cookbook? One of the boys is thinking about pursuing a kind of culinary career."

Derek grinds his teeth together, trying to ignore the way his heart is hammering in his ears and his lungs are pushing up short, harsh, rapid bursts of air through his throat and his fingers are clenched so _painfully_ tight because he doesn't know where and what (and _who_ ) they'd seek if he let them free. He turns side-on to Stiles (because if he turned his back, he'd be vulnerable and he wouldn't put it past Stiles to physically attack him) and twists his chin towards his shoulder to look down at Lori.

"Of course," he answers, and his voice is stiff even for him. He drops his gaze to the box and focuses on a deep, long inhale, and a similar exhale, and then he looks at Lori again. "Take any you need," he adds, and this time his voice is a little stilted, because he suddenly wishes Stiles and Isaac weren't here _today_ of all days, at _3pm_ of all times.

"Uh, Derek, I can't see the elephant sequel," Brett calls out from the bottom of the store, hunched over the trolley full of the kids' books Theo brought earlier.

Derek throws a warning glare at Stiles, whose confused glance towards Brett morphs into his own glare when he meets Derek's again (and the barista is so close, their shoulders are nearly touching at a right-angle), and Derek hopes Stiles can read the silent _Don't move and don't touch anything_ simmering across his face. Then he resolutely _does not_ make any more eye contact, or anything close, with Stiles as he slips behind the counter and retrieves the sequel from a cupboard on the other side. He carries it down to Brett while he silently counts down from ten in a probably-fruitless attempt to regain some semblance of calm.

"Aw, did you keep it aside special?" Brett smirks, a friendly taunt in his voice that Derek normally wouldn't mind so much (but he _knows_ Stiles has ignored him and moved into one of the aisles and has probably heard Brett, so now he _very much_ minds).

"There's a spare box at the counter you can pack 'em all into," Derek mutters.

"Derek, I've found four books in here - is it alright if we take them all?" Lori calls from the front again. "I don't wanna steal from a charity box."

Derek grinds his teeth, trying to remember if the siblings are _always_ this vocal and obvious about what's going on when they come into his store every second Thursday. He knows that neither of them are aware of the _painful awareness_ he's burdened with as Stiles strolls deeper into the store, but it _feels_ like they're trying to make things worse for him.

"I told you to take any you need," he reminds Lori, struggling between a snap (to keep up the reputation he's sure he must have) and a smile (because Lori is a nice girl and he learned pretty quickly that speaking like he usually does to her can upset her and he _doesn't like_ that look on her face when she gets upset).

"You alright, man?" Brett asks quietly next to him, glancing somewhere over Derek's shoulder because he hasn't exactly managed to be subtle about how on-edge Stiles' presence is making him.

"I'm fine," he mutters. But his back is rigid and his ears are straining desperately to catch any audible evidence that Stiles is destroying or meddling or _anything_ with his books (and his entire body is still burning). "Have you found enough books?" Brett nods, lifting a pile of six in his hands. Derek slaps the elephant sequel onto the top, but now he's frowning at Brett. "Don't you normally take more?"

Brett averts his gaze and dons the smirk he wears when he's trying to hide something. "Well, Lori's picked some from the box up front. And if I took any more of these," he shrugs, his head tilting towards the shelves, "I don't think they'd be coming back in two weeks."

Derek rolls his eyes and snatches the pile from Brett's hand. "Take them, Brett." (Because they're _kids' books_ and they should _be with kids_ ).

He strides up to the front of the shop and squats to load the books into the empty box, offering his hand out to Lori to take the books she's picked and slot them in, too. Then he lifts the box up onto the counter, ignoring the low chat Isaac and Boyd are having on the other end, and turns to look down the store at Brett again (he can see Stiles in his peripherals at the other side of the aisle, dragging his fingers across the spines of his books as if trying to _provoke_ Derek into another argument). Brett is clearly hesitating, a slight frown pulling at his mouth, so Derek walks back down to him.

"You're not gonna bankrupt me by taking a few books for free," Derek tells him quietly.

"It's a 'few' every two weeks, though," Brett replies, just as quiet.

Derek just shrugs and holds the younger's gaze until he wins the silent battle and Brett's shoulders sag a little, a softer expression coating his features.

"Yeah, alright," Brett mumbles, biting back a smile as he reaches out and picks three more books from the shelves. "Thanks, man."

Derek nods stiffly.

He watches Brett walk back up to the front of the shop and deposit the extra books in the box before he slides it off the counter into his arms. Lori turns to send a grin and a happy wave down at him.

"See you in a couple weeks!" she calls.

Derek nods again.

"See you later, Boyd," Brett says as Lori holds the door open for him. Boyd pauses his quiet conversation with Isaac to respond, and then the siblings walk out of the store, letting the door swing shut behind them with another tinkle from the bell.

Derek's nerves are so shot he almost flinches at the noise.

"I thought you didn't have conversations with other people," Stiles says somewhere nearby (on the other side of the shelves behind Derek - he's been monitoring the barista closely).

Derek scowls and twists his neck to look over his shoulder at him, ready to snap an appropriate insult back at Stiles, but then the younger's words register in his mind and he clocks the bitter twist of his pouty lips, realises the almost-petulant tone in Stiles' voice (because Stiles said _other people_ as if he meant _other than him_ and his expression is definitely _not happy_ about Derek having a conversation with people _other than Stiles_ ) and it makes him falter.

"It's kind of hard to serve customers when you don't speak to them," Derek mutters.

Stiles lifts his gaze from the books in front of him, looking up at Derek from under scrunched eyebrows. "What kind of customers don't pay?"

Derek eases the twist in his neck by looking straight up the aisle he's still stood in, immobile. "The orphanage kind."

He can _feel_ Stiles staring at the side of his face and it sends that blazing heat up his spine again, so he turns and squats down to the box of books Brett returned to him and starts to organise them onto the shelves.

He hears Stiles' sneakers scuffing against the floor as the barista rounds the end of the aisle and stands a few steps to Derek's left.

He doesn't look up, and Stiles doesn't speak.

The trolley begins to twist back and forth.

Derek slides the books back onto the shelves with a little more force than necessary.

"So, turned out you did a pretty good job fixing up my shoulder last week," Stiles comments.

Derek grits his teeth and doesn't look up. "It's not healed yet," he observes.

"Uh, no, it's- it's not," Stiles says slowly. "How'd you-"

"You're not using it as much as you normally would. You should keep using it, just nothing overly strenuous."

"Kinda hard when _every_ movement I make is sorta strenuous," Stiles mutters (and Derek _does not smile_ ). "Did you hear what those assholes did after we won the game?"

Derek glances up, eyes dancing across Stiles' face and body in search of signs of injury. "What?" he prompts, frowning.

Stiles' body seems to be more relaxed now, his injured arm hanging limply at his side while the other continues to move the trolley back and forth, and his face is twisting in that dramatically incredulous expression he tends to abuse. "They didn't shut down," he explains, eyebrows lifting as if he expects Derek to _match_ his incredulity.

Derek's expression flattens and he turns back to the books.

"Alright, _fine_ , I know how it sounds, okay?" Stiles rants. "But we _all_ agreed to the terms of the game. I sent Lydia across with a white napkin tied to a straw to negotiate, y'know, physical combat-" Derek pauses to throw him a look, "-and eventually we settled on a game of lacrosse, because we played in high school and it's _apparently_ a better option than full-out battle, but whatever."

Derek notices the trolley stop swinging back and forth, but he keeps his attention on the dwindling books in the box between his knees.

"I mean, they fought _that_ because they knew I was serious, but somehow figured that I _wasn't_ serious about the consequence of losing the game? C'mon, grow up. You can't just be selective when you agree to something like that. You can't _agree_ to engage in battle and then just _refuse_ to make the sacrifice when you lose. That's not how war works."

Derek slides the last book onto the shelf and huffs out a quiet sigh as he pushes to stand up straight again. He sees a book slide between another two, manoeuvred by long, bony fingers, and his wide eyes snap to Stiles' face as the barista watches the book he's shelving, completely immersed in his own rant but paying some attention to the actions of his body.

"So, y'know, we meet at the school, words are exchanged, threats made, insults thrown, whatever, and we get down to the nitty gritty shit. And it was a good game, man. I know you only showed up at the end, but we played a good game - those _Bunker_ assholes are just freaks of nature."

Derek is completely stiff. He can do nothing but watch as Stiles picks up another book from the trolley and finds a place for it on the shelf. He wants to shout, to slap the book out of Stiles' fingers, but he can't move.

"And then we won!" Stiles gestures a book wildly, his injured arm actually moving to flail his free hand as well. "It might have been a little unorthodox, but they let Kira play and she doesn't work at _Deaton's_ , so why wouldn't Boyd be allowed to play? They didn't try to dispute the fact that we _won_ , but they argued that because it was technically a last-minute substitute who got one of the goals instead of one of the agreed-upon players, it forfeited the agreed-upon _consequence_ of losing the game. Which, I mean, _c'mon_ ," he groans out, eyes widening at the shelves as he slots another book in. "If they weren't prepared to close down their coffee shop in payment for losing the game, they shouldn't have frickin' agreed to the game in the first place! We put _all_ that effort in because we thought they'd shut down if we won, and it was for nothin', man! _Nothing_. So _now_ I need to think up more steps in the plan because-"

Derek finally regains control of his body and his hand snatches out to wrap around Stiles' wrist. Stiles' voice cuts off after an incoherent exclamation, his head swivelling to turn startled eyes at Derek, and Derek can only frown at him. "What are you doing?"

Stiles blinks at him. Then he looks at the book in his hand, at the space on the shelf he'd made with his free hand, at the trolley still full of new books. "Uh," he mutters, looking back at Derek with a confused twist to his eyebrows. "Helping?"

Stiles' skin is warm under Derek's fingers. He's wearing a graphic tee again today, but without any additional layers, and his arms are exposed from mid-bicep down to the tips of his fingers, and Derek's eyes skim over the expanse of skin, noting the lean muscle and dark hairs.

"You're putting them in alphabetical order," Derek says.

Stiles frowns and glances at the shelves. "Have you _not_ been organising them in alphabetical order? Because if not, dude, you're not gonna believe this-"

"I _have_ been," Derek bites out.

"Oh," Stiles says, blinking at him again. "Then what's the problem?"

Derek scowls. " _Why_ are you helping?"

Stiles' chin pulls sharply inwards, his bottom lip pushing upwards until there's another pout on his mouth, his eyes slipping sideways and widening briefly. His fingers twitch on the book in his grasp and Derek feels the tendons in the barista's inner wrist shifting beneath his fingertips.

"Well- 'cause-" Stiles stumbles awkwardly. "Y'know," he shrugs. "You came to the game." Derek watches him silently. "You fixed my shoulder."

And, for a moment, Derek thinks Stiles just means he _owes_ Derek. But then he realises the implication in the younger man's words - _you're more than a customer_.

Derek lets go of Stiles' wrist. He means to take a step back, too, but his feet don't move. So he just stands there, Stiles' body less than an arm's length away, and stares at the barista with the whiskey eyes and the dark, occasionally-floppy hair, and the shadow of stubble highlighting the lines of his jaw, and _this_ is the metaphorical bonfire his thoughts were like kids chasing the embers of, because his _body_ is the bonfire and he _knows_ it's only ablaze because Stiles is here and so close.

And Stiles is _here in his store_ , where Derek has spent the majority of the last few years in comfort and calm, and Stiles has _walked in_ and disrupted it all to ramble on about how he fully expected _The Bunker_ to shut down just because they lost a game of lacrosse, and he's started _helping Derek_ reshelve books while he talks as if it's the most natural thing in the world, as if he's _comfortable_ and _familiar_ here in Derek's store (and the scariest part is the way the flames in Derek's chest writhe stronger and wilder in response, as if seeing Stiles so familiar in _his space_ is something he's been _waiting for_ ).

"Why are you here?" Derek asks, and he can hear how quiet his voice is.

Stiles swallows and slips the book onto the shelf blindly. "Book," he mutters, his voice low and scratchy. Then he blinks. "Uh, I need a book."

Derek stares at him. "What book?"

"Something about warfare," the barista answers. He blinks again and looks across the store at the other aisles. "Since my war wound and the devastating news that _The Bunker_ wasn't shutting down, I kinda lost sight of the Big Plan. Malia suggested Step Thirteen: M is for Murder and, honestly, I'm not ruling it out yet; but I thought I could study up a bit on warfare before I commit."

Derek inhales deeply through his nose, lifting his face to search the air beyond Stiles' head for patience. "Non-fiction is the aisle along the windows," he directs. "There'll be books about war in the history section."

Stiles pouts his lips thoughtfully, his head turning to look over at the mentioned aisle. Derek's eyebrows slowly scrunch inwards, and then one lifts questioningly the longer Stiles stays there, just standing in front of him, staring over at the other side of the store and _not_ going to investigate like he said he was here to do.

"What are you doing?" Derek asks again. It seems to be a common question between them.

"Do you have any you'd recommend?" Stiles counters, looking back at him with interest.

Derek's eye twitches. "For your ridiculous mission to convince a coffee shop that isn't even costing you business to shut down?" he checks flatly, watching Stiles' face slump with annoyance. "No, Stiles."

"Jeez, dude. No need to be such a dick about it," he huffs, stalking off.

Derek watches him go for a moment, strengthening his glare when Stiles glances over his shoulder at him petulantly, before he turns back to the trolley and continues what Stiles so _strangely_ started (and part of him imagines that he'd just stepped in and _joined_ Stiles instead of gaping at him and then stopping him).

After a few minutes, he hears, "Hey, man, any chance of you donating this to the cause?"

"No, Stiles. You pay like everyone else," Derek replies, refusing to turn away from his organising to make eye-contact (because he's concerned he'd actually _concede_ if he did).

Stiles mutters grumpily all the way up to the counter, and then Derek hears Boyd ringing the book through the till. Derek finishes shelving the books and wraps his hand around the trolley's handle, wheeling it behind him as he makes his way up to the top of the store again.

"We're going to the bar later tonight," Isaac comments. "You wanna come?"

"Yeah, I'll come," Boyd answers, and _seriously_ , Boyd? _How_ can he so easily agree to that?

"What about you, Derek?" Isaac adds.

Derek turns to look over his shoulder at the three of them, all stood there waiting for his answer (and Stiles is painfully still and quiet and maybe if it was _him_ who had asked, he would've said yes). "I'm busy tonight." Stiles frowns gently, as if by accident, and Derek has to look away again.

The three of them exchange goodbyes and promises of meeting each other at a specified time in a specified place, and Derek grunts his own farewell just as they're walking out the door, and then _finally_ it's just him and Boyd again and there's peace and order restored to his sacred space.

But then Boyd says, "You should try hanging out with them. I think they're good for us."

And Derek thinks that hiring Vernon Boyd might have been the point in his life where he triggered his own decimation.


	7. Step Sixteen: P is for Passive Aggressive Protocols

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles' next step takes place over a week.
> 
> Derek is exasperated and frustrated.
> 
> Boyd is swamped.
> 
> Jackson is a donkey on the edge.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's another bulky chapter - might not be the best quality! Thanks for the kudos and let me know what you think x

**Day One**

Derek's pretty sure that if Boyd _had_ hair, he'd be pulling it out right about now. The college student's eyes are bloodshot, his thick frame is slumped and sluggish, and his mouth is more _harsh_ than _contained_ in its normal, flat line. He's needed to have a cup of Derek's coffee as soon as he's trudged in every morning for the past three days, and he has never _once_ made any indication whatsoever that he isn't happy about it - usually, there'd be a twitch of his lip as he swallowed, or a silent, judging look thrown Derek's way; but he's consumed the coffee as if his taste buds have suddenly been replaced with caffeine buds and the fact that Derek uses shitty, bitter coffee grounds means nothing to him now, just as long as it's caffeinated.

And Derek has no issue admitting that he's concerned.

Today is the fourth day in a row of Boyd looking like he's slept three hours in the last ninety-six, and Derek has come prepared with a flask of coffee that he intends to consume nothing of, because he satisfied himself with a coffee in his apartment before he left (and maybe he woke up ten minutes earlier than usual to facilitate said coffee, but he doesn't need to admit _that_ part). He silently refills Boyd's mug when the young man finishes the first, and he makes sure that he's the first face customers see as soon as they walk in the door so they don't disturb Boyd from whatever all-consuming assignment he's working on now. He'd _tried_ to encourage Boyd into the staffroom so there'd be less risk of distraction, but the young man had frowned and shook his head, and Derek would've had to have physically _moved_ Boyd if he was going to persist, so he left him to it.

But then lunchtime swings around. Derek might still feel some reluctance regarding the daily trip to _Deaton's_ , but the tension he felt between the lacrosse game and Stiles coming into his store has passed, and nobody's been funny with him the past two days he's gone in (though that might just be because Stiles was elsewhere both times). So, no, he's not feeling uneasy about the fact that he has to go to _Deaton's_ again - it's that he's having to leave Boyd here, alone, where customers might walk by and see him at the counter and decide they want to come in and chat about books while Boyd is so very obviously neck-deep in college work.

"Go sit in the staffroom for a while and give your legs a break," Derek says as he threads his arms into the sleeves of his leather jacket.

"They're fine," Boyd mutters, focused on the screen of his laptop.

Derek frowns. "Boyd. Go."

Boyd finally glances up at him over the top of his screen, eyebrows scrunching in a way that whispers a threat of Stiles' influence, his jaw set with stubborn frustration. _But_ , to Derek's astonishment, he gathers his loose sheets of paper and his laptop, and he turns on his heel to move his workstation into the staffroom.

Derek moves quickly, as if Boyd might all-of-a-sudden come to his senses and run out to the counter again. The sign he hasn't had to use since he worked alone is still slotted in a drawer behind the counter, and he tapes it to the inside of the door on his way out. Then he pulls the door shut, locks it (Boyd has a key, so it's not like he's trapping the young man inside), and strides over to his car.

He has to park a short walk away from the coffee shop, since the street is so busy for parking today, and he wouldn't mind the stroll, normally, but _today_ he wants to get some food and coffee for Boyd as quick as he can and get back to the bookstore before any customers do something stupid and annoying like _knock_ on the door. And, because the universe is _never_ on his side these days, he finds two of the three baristas working at _Deaton's_ today standing _outside_ their workplace, _not_ working, _not_ available to Derek to facilitate his quick and efficient in-and-out transaction. The fact that Stiles is one of them makes absolutely _no_ impression on Derek, at all, because he'd be an idiot to let that suprise him.

The barista has a wide, firm stance, his front facing down the sidewalk towards Derek, but his head is twisted into the street so that he can stare across it at _The Bunker_ , his eyes narrowed and arms crossed in a picture of petty suspicion and hatred. He's wearing a dark-grey Henley, the top couple of buttons hanging loose and exposing some of his collarbone, and he doesn't seem to have cut his hair _or_ shaved his stubble. Derek tucks his clenched hands into his jacket pockets.

"Are you done yet? I don't like being so exposed - I feel like they're gonna gun me down any minute," Stiles complains.

"Well, maybe if you stopped _staring_ -" Erica retorts from a squat at his side, writing something in chalk on the little board they have outside their window.

"It's called keeping watch, dumbass. You'll thank me when I give you fair warning that they're about to attack us."

"They're not gonna attack us in broad daylight unprovoked."

"Jackson would."

Erica pauses and tilts her head. "Good point."

"Is anyone _in_ the shop?" Derek grunts out when he gets closer to the door.

Stiles' head snaps forward to look at him, eyebrows in his hairline and mouth gaping like an idiot. "Uh, hey, man," he stutters. "Uh, yeah, Isaac's inside. But- hey! Wait. Hold up, dude. You gotta tell us what you think of this step."

Derek removes a hand from his pocket to pull his sunglasses off, and he walks to Erica's side to see what she's written on the board.

" _We wear red because we love our customers. They wear green because they're jealous."_

Derek swears he feels physical _pain_. "What step is this?" he asks, completely exasperated, even if his tone can only ever suggest pissed off.

Stiles looks delighted by the question, all bright, wide eyes and beaming smile. "Step Sixteen: P is for Passive Aggressive Protocols," he answers proudly. "What d'you think?"

Derek hangs his sunglasses on the collar of his shirt (and maybe it's not black, and maybe that's because of something a random barista mentioned to him recently while _stroking his fucking arm_ ), and he pushes into _Deaton's_ to resume his quest for a fast, efficient lunch-run, refusing to give Stiles what he wants.

Isaac, somehow standing at an empty counter despite the volume of customers lounging around, takes one look at Derek's face and says, "I had no part in that."

Stiles scoffs behind Derek, cluing the older into realising that the other two have followed him into the shop. "Only 'cause you have no imagination,' Stiles mutters.

"No, actually," Isaac intones. "It's because I'm only paid to make coffee and serve food. If you wanna use my brain, you gotta pay up, Stilinski."

"Isaac, _how many times_ , man? We make a better wage than pretty much _every_ other barista in this frickin' town."

"My job description doesn't include the creation of devastating insults aimed at the competition."

"They're not insults-" Stiles retorts.

"Isaac," Derek growls over the top of him, "The usual."

"-they're _passive aggressive_ comments designed to surreptitiously wound our enemies without giving them fair grounds for physical retaliation," Stiles continues, unbothered, as he steps next to Derek and slumps over the counter, his elbows and forearms keeping him upright.

Isaac scoffs as he moves to prepare Derek's order. Erica steps up at Derek's other side and extends an expectant hand towards him. Derek quirks an eyebrow, but retrieves a bill from his pocket and hands it over to her.

"Pretty sure Jackson's brand of physical retaliation doesn't depend on _fair_ grounds," Isaac counters.

"It's fine," Stiles dismisses easily. "They'll be too busy nursing their broken morale to come for us."

" _You_ ," Isaac amends over his shoulder. "And he absolutely will come for you. Have you learned nothing?"

"Uh, I've learned a _lot_ actually, thanks to that book on warfare I _bought_ ," Stiles counters childishly, throwing a glare over his shoulder at Derek.

Derek stares back at him, unimpressed. "I buy from your precious coffee shop _every day_ and you can't buy _one_ book in return?"

Stiles' mouth clacks shut, eyes slipping from Derek to contemplate the empty air beside him, and then he slowly pouts. "I, uh- you- that's-" he stumbles quietly, gesturing vaguely with the air of a child realising he's in the wrong. "Huh."

Derek's eyebrows lift as he gives Stiles a flat, pointed smile, and nods.

"Smooth, Stiles," Erica comments with a smirk, handing Derek his change.

"Shut up, Erica. Your insult was uninspired."

"I thought they weren't insults?" Isaac challenges with feigned confusion, sliding two coffee cups over the counter to Derek.

"Oh my god, is it _Everyone's Out to Get Stiles Day_ today? What the hell has gotten into you people?"

"Irritation, mostly," Derek comments before he can stop himself.

Isaac grins wickedly, and Erica snorts as she wanders back to the till. Stiles, on the other hand, twists his body so he's only leaning on his right arm, lifting the left side of his torso so he can see Derek better when he gapes at him, mouth hanging open and expression slack with shock. Derek grits his teeth and tries to focus on Isaac waiting for the paninis to finish cooking (and he is _not_ biting back a smile, like, _at all_ ).

"This place is different when Scott's not here," Stiles mutters grumpily. "It's a whole other vibe."

"You can't rely on your best friend to deescalate all your battles before you lose them forever, you know," Isaac shrugs.

" _Lose them_?" Stiles repeats indignantly, twisting his head until his chin hits his shoulder to look up at Isaac (and Derek _doesn't_ follow the stubbled line of his jaw with a subtle glance). "Who says I'm losing battles?"

"You literally _just_ lost one," Isaac retorts pointedly, bagging Derek's paninis. "You picked a fight against three people and lost."

Stiles smirks lopsidedly, quirking an eyebrow. "That wasn't a battle. The only battles I'm engaged in are the ones found in each of my twenty-six, _excellent_ steps in the plan to take _The Bunker_ down. Which, by the way, are battles I _know_ each one of you would have my back in, no matter how much you claim to be _irritated_ by me," he accuses, levelling Derek with a stare that feels like it sees straight through to his soul. "Case and point: the lacrosse game."

Derek collects the coffees and the paninis, finding himself suddenly voiceless when he tries to deny Stiles' accusation, so he just sends Isaac a nod of thanks and then turns on his feet to leave the shop and get back to his own store (and if someone were to observe that he'd had to put in a surprising amount of effort to make his body listen to him and _walk away_ from the counter, he'd kill that person and stuff them in his trunk).

Back at his bookstore, Derek finds the front door thankfully devoid of waiting customers, his " _Closed for lunch. Come back later_ ," sign still stuck to the glass, and Boyd still working away on his college assignment in the staffroom.

He has to prompt Boyd to finish the panini, even after the uneaten half goes slightly cold in his neglect, and it makes Derek wonder what Boyd's other meals look like when he's this immersed in his work.

"What're you doing for dinner tonight?" Derek asks conversationally (or as close to it as he can manage) when they're closing up.

It really shows how distracted Boyd is that he doesn't even blink at the ludicracy of Derek _making small talk_. "I don't know," the young man mutters. "Coffee, maybe."

Derek's eyebrows furrow almost painfully. He stalks over to Boyd and snatches the young man's backpack from his exhausted hands, carrying it into the staffroom to stuff it into Boyd's locker.

"Derek, what-"

"You were falling asleep on top of your laptop earlier, Boyd," Derek grunts, stomping out of the staffroom again. "I'm taking you to my place, you're gonna eat dinner, and you're gonna get a decent night's sleep."

Boyd can only stare flatly at Derek. But he follows him out of the store and slips into the passenger seat of Derek's Camaro, and he eats a full home-cooked meal, and Derek hears him start to snore as soon as he hits the pillows of his spare bed later that night.

**Day Two**

Derek is pleased to see that Boyd looks more like a healthy human being the next morning. They have some breakfast and a coffee each, and then Derek drives them in to the book store. He retrieves Boyd's backpack from his locker and pushes it into the young man's arms, then guides him back towards the front door.

"Go home, Boyd," Derek says. "You're just gonna get distracted here. And you better eat, or I'll come over and shove food down your throat."

Boyd looks like he disagrees, but he does as Derek says and catches a bus home.

Derek spends his morning wondering what _he_ wants to do for lunch - whether he'll go to _Deaton's_ even when Boyd's not here to force him to.

He's spared the turmoil (and admitting to himself that he'd rather go to _Deaton's_ just for himself than go anywhere else) when Boyd pushes back into the store and moves towards the staffroom, muttering, "I concentrate best here," as he goes by.

When he walks along the sidewalk to _Deaton's_ , Derek notices the chalkboard angled better to see the words written in red: " _Do you like baristas who know how to smile and be nice? The Bunker_ _doesn't_ _!_ "

"A little less surreptitious, don't you think?" Derek asks flatly of Stiles when he pushes into the coffee shop.

Stiles lifts his chin, his mouth pouting thoughtfully. "Yesterday's board didn't really have the effect I was looking for, so I thought we'd kick it up a notch."

Derek quirks an eyebrow and Isaac seems to agree. "I know, it's like he _wants_ Jackson to break his nose."

Stiles rolls his eyes at Isaac's back when the other barista starts making Derek's coffees. "We've been _over_ this, Isaac. I read about it in the book. Bringing the opposing side's morale down is strategic and can seriously affect the outcome of a war."

"You're not cutting off their food supply or stealing their weapons, though," Isaac retorts. "You're explicitly provoking them."

"I'm not _provoking_ ," Stiles denies, his mouth stretching into that lopsided grin as he meets Derek's gaze and throws a thumb over his shoulder at Isaac, shaking his head. "I'm making them feel bad about themselves."

"You're insulting their customer service. It could affect business for them," Derek says flatly. Stiles is an idiot, and Derek honestly wouldn't be surprised if Jackson was provoked into hurting the barista again (and there is _a lot_ of time in the day where Derek isn't around the coffee shop to help if something were to happen).

"Sounds like a win-win scenario to me," Stiles scoffs.

"You won't be so confident when you're choking on your own blood," Isaac snarks.

Stiles' face contorts with disgust and he turns to look at his colleague. " _Dude_ , that was so graphic, what the hell?"

Isaac shrugs, unbothered.

Derek listens to them prattle on for another while, until his order is ready and he's paid for the food and drinks. Then he returns to the bookstore, unlocking the door and taking the sign down from the window again, and resumes his subtle monitoring of Boyd's attempt at self-care while he struggles with his assignment. He lets Boyd go back to his own home that night, but he sends him a text around 7pm to check that the younger man has eaten something for dinner.

**Day Three**

Derek glances at the board outside of _Deaton's_ (" _Our coffee is made with love. Theirs is made with tears._ ") before he pushes into the coffee shop, and he finds Stiles not-so-subtly staring through the window at _The Bunker_ while he fiddles with things on the counter.

"Hey, man," Stiles greets distractedly. "I've been thinking about sending an undercover agent into _The Bunker_ to see if the assholes are saying anything about our psychological warfare. What d'you think?"

"I think you're overestimating the effect of your petty insults," Derek intones, moving to the counter.

"Hey, bro!" Scott beams happily. "Good to see you. You want the usual?"

Derek tries not to scowl in response to the enthusiasm Scott wields so freely and happily. "Yeah. Thanks."

"Y'know, sometimes I feel like you just don't _get_ what we're trying to do, here," Stiles comments grumpily at Derek's side. "I mean, are you doing it on _purpose_? Is that what this is?"

"No, Stiles. I just don't care," Derek grunts, opening his wallet to retrieve a $20 bill to avoid looking at the barista.

Stiles scoffs. "Bullshit. There's _no way_ you're not getting invested in this. People don't just _not care_ when they see a war against evil forces like the Argents and their asshole employees."

Derek lifts his gaze to the ceiling for a moment, inhaling deeply. Then he turns a flat, emotionless smile to Stiles, whose eyes are so _big_ and _warm_ and _bright_ \- "You're right. I've been losing sleep over the petty, childish, pathetic bickering between you and your so-called rival coffee shop, Stiles. It literally keeps me up at night, wondering what shitty insult you're cooking up for the next day."

Stiles' splutters indignantly, his brow scrunching like it's trying to burrow its way down to his chin, and he pushes away from the counter to face Derek fully, his fists clenching at his sides (and Derek feels so _slow_ when he drags his gaze away from Stiles' hands). "You're a dick, you know that?" Stiles settles on eventually, loud and angry (and Derek _refuses_ to acknowledge the tinge of hurt).

"Stiles," Scott reprimands quietly, glancing around at the nearby customers while he slides Derek's coffees over.

"What? He is," Stiles retorts insolently, crossing his arms over his chest and leaning his hip against the counter.

Derek scowls at him. "And you're an idiot."

Stiles' whiskey eyes darken with anger. "At least I have something I'm passionate about," he snaps. "At least I can actually _feel_ things, unlike a certain _wall of emotionless muscle_ I know."

Derek blinks stupidly, but he manages to maintain the scowl, at least.

"Hating everything and everyone doesn't count as a personality, y'know," Stiles grumps, crossing his arms tighter and slumping in on himself dejectedly.

Derek's scowl falters. "I don't hate everything," he mutters. Stiles is twisting on his feet to look out the window again when more words slip out. "And I don't hate everyone."

But Stiles' posture suddenly radiates excited anticipation. "Oh my god, Jackson's looking at the board. Oh, he's gonna be so _pissed_. Erica did good today and he's _totally_ gonna- uh, I mean- well, no, that's not- huh."

"What?" Scott prompts curiously, handing Derek's paninis over.

"Uh, he's- he's _laughing_ ," Stiles mutters, bewildered. "And now he's showing Ethan and- yup, okay. Ethan's laughing, too. Okay. It's fine. We're just warming up. They're hurting on the inside. It's fine. We'll get 'em tomorrow."

Derek turns and walks away before Stiles sees his reluctant smile and makes a scene about Derek feeling something other than hatred (and, yes, okay, he _hates_ the way his stomach twists a little at the thought that Stiles thinks Derek hates everyone, Stiles included).

He's a little more blunt than usual when he orders Boyd to come over again tonight for a meal and a good night's sleep.

**Day Four**

Derek has to park outside _The Bunker_ today. He tosses an uninterested glance through the coffee shop's window, and pauses when he sees one of the employees clock him and suddenly rush to the door. Derek's back tenses, his fingers flexing instinctively, and he quickly identifies nearby surfaces that would be ideal to pin someone against.

"Hey," the young man says when he opens the door, leaning against the glass with only one foot on the sidewalk.

His features are sharp and angular, with full lips, a strong jaw, and thick eyebrows. Derek notices the broad shoulders and built arms, recognises the wary hostility in his eyes and the tilted lift of his chin, and thinks this might be the teammate he'd pushed Jackson into back at the lacrosse game.

"You wanna tell your boyfriend to knock it off before _my_ boyfriend takes the bait and does something they'll both get in trouble for?"

Derek is just going to have to completely and utterly _ignore_ the start of the guy's sentence (even though it's hard with his mind sticking on the word like a fucking broken record - boyfriend, boyfriend, boyfriend, _boyfriend-)_ and ignore the fact that he _instantly_ knows who the guy's referring to (but that's just because it's obviously Stiles because he's in charge, not because someone would think _Stiles is Derek's_ -) and he tilts his head at the guy and focuses on the rest of the sentence.

"Pretty sure that sounds like Jackson's problem, if he can't handle some innocent comments without losing control."

"Maybe," the guy replies lowly, tilting his chin downwards now to level Derek with an irritated glare. "And maybe _Stiles'_ problem is picking fights he knows he can't win."

Derek grins and looks down the sidewalk, crossing his arms over his chest (which may or may not be _burning_ with hatred). "Y'know, that kind of sounded like a threat," he says with feigned curiosity.

"It's not a threat. It's a fact," the guy retorts, the corner of his mouth pulling humourlessly into his cheek. "Stiles is trying to provoke Jackson. Stiles should learn _not_ to provoke people who could easily snap him in half. I'm just giving you enough warning to convince him before Jackson does."

He smirks and slips back into the coffee shop and Derek grits his teeth, his fingers _digging_ into his arms, utilising all of his willpower to not storm after the guy and teach him something about picking fights he can't win. He can't _believe_ he's literally found himself between the assholes in _The Bunker_ and the idiots in _Deaton's_ , feeling like some kind of fucking mediator ( _protector_ ) to make sure nobody attacks anyone else. Stiles is a fucking _idiot_ , pushing people like Jackson and this guy when they're so _fucking_ clearly assholes who'd probably beat Stiles within an inch of his life if he provoked them enough. Derek's already worrying about Boyd and sometimes he feels a tinge of concern about Theo and he often catches himself wishing he could do more for the kids at Satomi's orphanage, and now he's got to consider ( _worry about_ ) Stiles, too, because the barista _definitely_ has a problem with provoking people who could easily overpower him.

As evidenced as soon as Derek pushes into _Deaton's_.

"What did Ethan want? You looked pretty chummy. Is he trying to recruit you to their side? Are you _already_ on their side? Have you been playing me- _us_ , this whole time? Are you really working undercover for _The Bunker_? Boyd, too? Oh my god, I can't _believe_ you, man. That is the worst. _You_ are the worst. You're _seriously_ siding with _them_ over _us_ , dude? I knew you were a cold-hearted shell of a human being but I didn't think you'd do something like _this_ \- God. This is worse than Isaac's betrayal. I trusted you with my _shoulder_ , man, how could you _do that_ to me- _ah_!" Stiles yelps when Derek's patience runs out and he wraps his fingers around Stiles' wrist and _tugs_ his arm across the counter, jerking the barista's torso into the edge until they're both leaning across the wood.

" _Shut up_ , Stiles," Derek growls through his teeth, scowling and glaring and everything else he can think of to radiate anger.

It's a tricky thing to maintain when Stiles is only a few inches away, his pink lips sucked into his mouth, his eyebrows shot up towards his hairline, his brown eyes blown wide with startled panic, his chin tilted upwards to try and remain somewhat upright after Derek's nearly folded him in half over the counter.

Derek's fingers are firm (but not painful, he made sure) around Stiles' wrist, his skin warm and soft and his pulse fluttering against Derek's fingertips. He can hear the short, strained breaths escaping Stiles' nostrils and they almost match the breaths punching out of Derek's nose, his own heart drumming rapidly in his chest as his gaze flicks over Stiles' face, settling on the whiskey-brown eyes watching him warily.

 _Why_ does Stiles have to be so ridiculously ( _endearingly_ ) obsessed with defending his place of work?

Stiles' eyes narrow, his head tilting slightly, and then his lips pop back out of his mouth, slightly darker from the pressure of being sucked inside and ( _sinfully_ ) shining. "Did they hire you to kill me?" he asks, and he's actually _serious_ , and his voice is low and quiet and a little hoarse, and Derek's teeth _grind_ together painfully.

"Don't be an idiot," Derek bites out. "I'm not on their side."

Stiles' eyes slowly relax again, his lips parting (the skin of his bottom lip softly peels from the skin of his top and Derek can't help but watch), and then he blinks and his face softens. And then Derek has to lean away again, because Stiles _beams_ at him like he's just given him the _moon_ , the grin lighting up his entire _fucking_ face, and Derek's concerned he'll be blinded if he stays so close to the barista.

"You used to say you weren't on any side," Stiles comments, and his voice is still quiet. "So, does this mean you're on _my_ side? On _Deaton's_ side?"

Derek scowls and watches the barista slowly straighten up again, but his movement pulls his arm in Derek's grip lightly, and they both look down at where they're joined. Stiles' skin is pale under Derek's tanned fingers, his thumb resting on top of Stiles' wrist and flattening some of the dark arm hairs. He can still feel Stiles' pulse beating against his fingertips, and it seems to flutter a little more rapidly the longer he stares. Derek tries to lift his gaze, but he can't seem to tear his attention from the feeling of Stiles' skin under his (he doesn't _want_ to let go; he wants _more_ ).

He presses his thumb into Stiles' wrist and swipes it gently across his skin, and a jolt of heat _surges_ up his arm and into his shoulder with enough force that he pulls away, his fingers slipping from the barista's hand until it hits the counter. Derek snatches it back to his own body, shoving it into his jacket pocket before it breaks free and does something _worse_. And then he looks up at Stiles' face again and he has to _clench_ his hand into a fist too big to slip back out of his pocket, because the barista is _staring_ at him, all parted lips and warm, wide eyes.

"Someone needs to make sure you don't put yourself in the hospital, or get killed," Derek mutters in reply to Stiles' question (even though he had _definitely_ meant to deny being on his side).

Stiles blinks at him and licks his lips (and Derek _can't stop_ watching his mouth). "You tryin' to tell me you care?" he asks, as if he's trying to maintain the sarcasm even though his voice is soft and low and quiet.

"Maybe I'd feel bad if they beat the shit out of you after Ethan warned me that would happen."

Stiles scoffs quietly, his lips pulling into that lopsided smirk. "They're bluffing."

Derek frowns. "I don't think you should push it. Maybe it's time you just-"

"I swear to god, dude, if you say ' _let it go_ ' or ' _give it up_ ' or something, I'm gonna-" Stiles pauses, his face scrunching petulantly as his hand waves around in the air, completely meaningless. "Y'know, I'm gonna- uh, I'll just- okay, I don't really know _what_ I'll do, okay? Because you're _huge_ and a little terrifying and I think you could probably wreck me if you wanted- I mean, like, y'know," he blurts, suddenly loud and laughing and staring at Derek with panicked eyes, "You could destroy me- I mean, like, demolish- like, fuck m- no, wait, I mean, like, y'know-"

A hand slaps Stiles' back, making the barista jump. "Stop talking, Stiles," Scott mutters through a dazzling grin at Derek.

"Yup, okay, just gonna-" Stiles mumbles, his head hanging low and thumb pointing down the counter before he slips past Scott and hurries off.

"Uh, sorry about that," Scott chuckles awkwardly, bringing Derek's frown back to him from Stiles' retreating back. "Here's your order, man."

Derek looks down at the counter and finds his coffees and paninis already made, even though he hadn't spoken to or seen anyone other than Stiles til Scott showed up. "Thanks," he mutters distractedly, handing the $20 bill he took out earlier across the counter.

He looks back down the shop, eyes searching the bodies milling around, but Stiles has disappeared. He takes his change from Scott, collects his order, and then turns to leave - and then a sudden thought comes to him.

"Scott," he mumbles, catching the barista's attention. "Ethan warned me about Jackson. Stiles is gonna push this too far."

"It's okay, man. They're not gonna put him in the hospital. We all went to high school together, and Stiles' dad is the Sheriff, anyway. They wouldn't risk it," Scott smiles.

Derek can't help but think he sounds dangerously naive. "Give me your phone."

Scott frowns. "What?" But he reaches towards his back pocket.

"I'm gonna give you my number. _Just you_. Something tells me I'll be more useful in a fight than any of you idiots."

"Harsh, dude. But okay."

When Derek walks out of the store, he glances at the board on the sidewalk and reads, " _Come to the coffee shop that_ _doesn't_ _invoke images of somewhere cold and depressing_!" He glances across the street and finds Jackson staring back at him, a smug smirk on his face.

**Day Five**

Boyd comes into the store with two backpacks today, one with all of his college stuff, and another he sets at his feet behind the counter with a meaningful look at Derek. The zip of the bag is open slightly, allowing a peek at the dark clothes stuffed inside. Derek considers the bag and Boyd's face for a moment, and then nods with a small smile. Boyd's shoulders relax a little and he nods back. Asking for help isn't exactly something they're familiar with, but Derek's glad all the same that Boyd is asking to stay over again. His employee clearly isn't taking care of himself when he's at his own home and it makes Derek's chest hum with approval that Boyd knows Derek will do a better job.

When Derek arrives at _Deaton's_ , he finds Erica on the sidewalk writing on the board. "You're still doing this?" he grunts, frowning down at her.

"Yeah, it's hilarious," she retorts, throwing him a flat look.

Derek steps closer to read her latest ' _passive aggressive_ ' remark.

" _Our beans are dreamy. Their beans are the stuff of nightmares._ "

"Idiots," Derek mutters, walking into the coffee shop.

It's Isaac and Scott on the counter today, and they both greet him when he approaches.

Derek leans against the counter at Scott's end. "Have they made any more threats?" he asks.

Scott frowns at him. "Who?"

Derek scowls and jerks his head to the right.

"Oh! Oh, what, Jackson? Ethan? No, man, they haven't done anything. I told you, they're not gonna risk hurting someone."

"People tend to act irrationally when they're pissed off."

"It's fine, seriously, Derek. Nothing's gonna happen."

Derek grits his teeth and looks out the window at _The Bunker_. He remembers the way Stiles fell at the lacrosse game, the way his face had paled, the sound of his pained shouts - and he remembers the smug look on Jackson's face as he tried to saunter over.

Derek sighs through his nose. "Just text me if something does."

(And he _ignores_ the smile Scott tries to hide).

**Day Six**

"I mean.. I knew it wasn't gonna be at _my_ level, but I still expected something a little more eloquent, Scotty."

"You were breathing down my neck about us running out of time, I panicked!"

"It looks like a _caveman_ wrote it, Scott. I didn't know your vocabulary could shrink any smaller than it already is."

"Well, this is the last day, anyway, right? It's summing up what this whole week has been about. I'm just summarising you and Erica's points."

Stiles sucks his lips into his mouth, his hands planted on his hips, narrowed eyes appraising the board on the sidewalk. His face scrunches as if tasting something foul, but after a couple of quick glances at Scott's wounded expression, he plasters a flat, nonchalant smile on his face and shakes his head, waving a hand dismissively. "No, totally. Totally. You're right. It's a perfect way to sum up what we've been implying the whole time. Of course, dude. You did good. Great job. Yeah."

And Scott beams proudly in response.

Derek takes a deep, calming breath as he approaches them, nodding at Stiles when the barista looks his way.

"Hey, man!" Scott chirps, rocking on his heels. "I got to write the last message!" He squats back down to draw some hearts around " _Deaton's_ ".

"It's good, huh?" Stiles prompts.

Derek frowns down at the board, his head tilting as he crosses his arms over his chest. He doesn't really know how he can put into words how _ridiculous_ this whole endeavour is, never mind the absurdly idiotic attempt Scott has made today.

" _Deaton's Good. Bunker bad._ "

Derek opens his mouth, but Stiles must sense the insult he's about to share, because Derek feels a sudden, biting _nip_ just below his ribs. He flinches slightly, his torso bending to pull the attacked area away from Stiles' long fingers, his head snapping round to _glare_ at the barista incredulously.

Stiles is staring back at him, wide-eyed with his eyebrows lifted towards his hairline, as if he's as shocked as Derek is by what he's just done. But then he steels himself and scowls back at him, jerking his head towards Scott pointedly.

Derek raises his own eyebrows, eyes widening in disbelief.

Stiles purses his lips, jerking his head forwards insistently as his eyebrows furrow even more.

Derek glares.

" _Isn't it_?" Stiles bites out.

Scott looks over his shoulder at them, his proud expression faltering slightly when he looks at their body language.

Derek scowls down at him, gritting his teeth. His chin pulls down sharply in a single nod, and then he marches into the coffee shop.

"At least it's the last one," Isaac greets him, glancing out the window. "And then there's just ten steps left."

"Just?" Derek grunts.

Isaac smirks and starts to work on Derek's order.

The shop is relatively quiet with the two biggest idiots still out on the sidewalk, and Derek takes advantage of the peace, letting it settle into his bones. Stiles' ability to get under his skin is a threat to Derek's state of mind every single day.

His phone buzzes in his pocket. The text is from an unknown number, but he knows exactly who it is when he reads " _Argent hlp_ ".

His gaze snaps to the window to see Scott rising to his feet, slipping his phone back in his pocket, taking a step forward to stand next to Stiles as they both look at the man crossing the street with Jackson at his heels.

Derek's feet are already carrying him outside before his mind catches up.

"Gentlemen," the man - Argent, presumably - smiles politely at Scott and Stiles. Jackson is smirking like a smug bastard behind him.

"Hey, man," Stiles greets, throwing them his lopsided grin. "How's it going?"

Derek is stood just outside the door, a few paces away from the group, because he _really_ doesn't want to involve himself with the owner of Stiles' rival coffee shop (but he would rather be on this side of the door if anything were to happen - he'll be able to get between anyone and Stiles (and Scott) quicker this way).

"I guess I'm just a little confused," Argent replies, still smiling. "I thought this was all just some silly game you guys were playing against my employees; but, uh, it seems like you've been insulting my _business_ , too."

"Who? Us? Oh, no, not at all, man," Stiles denies.

"Oh, c'mon, that's such bullshit!" Jackson snaps, his smirk falling as a snarl takes its place, and he takes a step forward, his shoulder hitting Argent's arm as he aims an accusatory finger at Stiles.

Derek is at Stiles' side before Jackson's sentence is even finished.

"Jackson," Argent says firmly, frowning over his shoulder at him. "What did I tell you?"

Jackson's jaw muscles jut against the skin of his cheek, his lips biting into each other.

Argent turns back to the rest of them and smiles again. "Sorry. Jackson's just as passionate about his workplace as you are, Stiles."

Derek eyes Jackson's rigid posture and Argent's relaxed, polite expression. He shifts on his feet, accidentally knocking his shoulder against Stiles', and Argent's attention is drawn to him.

"Who are you, his bodyguard?" Argent chuckles good-naturedly.

Derek's back goes rigid.

"Derek's our friend," Scott supplies from Stiles' other side.

Derek turns to look at Scott, caught off-guard by the declaration, but finds himself distracted by Stiles' warm eyes on his face. He's staring at him with an unreadable expression, but it makes Derek's back relax and his expression soften, and he's suddenly hyper-aware of the press of his arm against Stiles'.

"Ah," Argent says, snapping Derek's attention back to him. "In that case, it's good to meet you, Derek. I'm Chris Argent."

Derek accepts the offered hand and shakes it firmly, noticing the lack of intimidation in Argent's eyes and grip. "Derek Hale."

Derek sees the recognition in Argent's eyes when their hands drop, but the man just nods and smiles.

"Listen, Stiles. I just wanted to come over and ask if you could maybe bring the game down a level. We all appreciate some lighthearted competition every now and then, but it's a little different when you start insulting my business on the street."

"Uh, look, I don't-" Stiles begins, shifting on his feet.

Derek lifts a hand and plants it on Stiles' shoulder, his grip around the joint firm and restricting. "He promises," Derek says, giving Argent a close-lipped smile. "Scott, wipe it off."

" _What_?" Stiles hisses, trying unsuccessfully to twist out of Derek's hold.

Derek tightens his grip pointedly.

Argent grins as Scott turns to the board and squats. "You've got a couple of loyal employees, there, Derek. They're hard to come by."

Derek blinks. "I don't work here."

Argent's grin falters with confusion, an eyebrow quirking when he glances again at Scott and then at Derek's hand on Stiles' shoulder. "Alright, well. It was good to see you, boys. Derek," he nods, and then he turns and pulls Jackson back across the street.

Derek lets go of Stiles' shoulder, ignoring when the barista whirls around to glare at him in favour of walking back into _Deaton's_ to get his order and pay for it.

"What the hell, man?" Stiles demands, outraged, as he follows Derek inside.

"I warned you not to push it."

Isaac has already made the coffees and, by the smells of things, the paninis are nearly done. Derek hands him the money across the counter.

"Are you kidding me?"

"You're lucky Argent seems like a reasonable guy," Derek snaps quietly, turning to glare at Stiles when the barista steps up next to him at the counter.

" _Reasonable_?" Stiles hisses incredulously, his face practically screaming his offended disbelief. "The guy is a _monster_ , dude! He's the _bad guy_! He's the _enemy_!"

Derek's eyes roll with exasperation. "It's Jackson you need to worry about, Stiles."

Stiles scoffs. "Jackson's not gonna do shit."

"The guy clearly has no issue causing injuries, and he doesn't seem like your biggest fan," Derek mutters, irritation bubbling in his chest.

"He's not gonna-"

" _Stiles_ ," Derek snaps, twisting his torso to face the barista properly, his hand clenching at his side to stop it from reaching out. "He's come at you before and he's going to do it again if you keep provoking him like this, and maybe next time I'm not gonna be around to stop him, so _you_ better stop with this shit before you get yourself hurt!"

"Oh, _come on_ , dude," Stiles snaps, face scrunched. "As if you actually give a shit."

Derek feels like punching him.

But he snatches his change from a startled Isaac, collects his coffees and paninis, and turns back to Stiles. He steps into the barista's space, watching with sadistic satisfaction when Stiles' eyes widen, his mouth clacking shut as he swallows.

"As much as I would _like to_ , Stiles," he hisses quietly. "I don't hate everyone. _You're_ the one who dragged me into this shit, so now I'm here. _Stop provoking Jackson_."

Stiles licks his lips, his warm eyes darkening with _something_ , and Derek suddenly realises how close they're standing. The cardboard cup holder in his hands is pressing into Stiles' stomach, the toes of their shoes nearly touching, and both of them have pushed their faces further towards each other in their aggression. The second he registers the puff of air across his skin from Stiles' aggravated breathing, Derek pushes past him and strides to the door, ignoring the deer-in-headlights expression on Scott's face.

His entire body is ablaze with his frustration (and something else), and he's pretty sure that existing in the same space as Stiles Stilinski is dangerously bad for his health.

(And, yet, he knows he'll keep coming back to _Deaton's_ and the barista with the eyes like whiskey.)


	8. Step Nineteen: S is for Scare Tactics

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Derek is forced into a social situation.
> 
> Derek and Scott do a little bonding.
> 
> Stiles bothers Derek.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi to anyone following these chapter updates - sorry about the delay if you were waiting, I've been struggling a little with motivation recently. Hope you're all well as we move into the new year and I wish you all the best for 2021 x
> 
> Also hope you enjoy the lil bonding moment between Scott and Derek - I love their relationship in TW and couldn't resist sprinkling it in a little bit.

In the week and a half since Stiles aggravated Derek into basically admitting that he doesn't hate Stiles, that he _gives a shit_ , a few things have happened to Derek. Firstly, Stiles has decided to always make himself scarce when Derek goes into _Deaton's_ , or simply ignores Derek's very existence if he's stuck in close proximity - Derek couldn't say _why_ , since _he's_ the one who made such a fool of himself in front of an audience of idiots intent on tearing his carefully-curated reputation apart (and the cold-shoulder bothers him a lot more than he'd ever admit).

Secondly, while Boyd has overcome whatever all-consuming assignment he had been trapped in for so long, they've still wound up going back to Derek's after work on three separate occasions for dinner, some beers, and a movie or TV show - he doesn't really know when they transitioned from the mutually-enjoyed employer-employee relationship to this _hanging out_ type of friendship, or how; all he knows is that they talk more now and might even start going to the gym together in the mornings (and maybe he's actually learning to appreciate having someone over at his apartment to break up the monotonous isolation he's used to).

Thirdly, and definitely the strangest of the lot, is that Scott has texted him twice. Neither message was about threats or dangerous situations or calls for backup - because, of course, Derek couldn't have just _willingly given_ his phone number out with good intentions and _not_ have learned to regret it almost instantly. In fact, the first message was an invite to a local bar. The second - which Derek nearly blocked Scott's number for - was an invitation to go over and play video games. Him, _Derek_ , playing _video games_. With _Scott_. He can honestly, truthfully, wholeheartedly claim that this is one of the most bizarre things to ever happen to him, and that he has absolutely _no interest_ in doing either of those things with Scott (or with someone else).

Derek isn't intellectually challenged, and he doesn't lack basic observational skills either - he _knows_ that something in his life has shifted. He isn't sure whether it's his appreciation of Boyd, his social tolerances, or his personal interests, but he knows that the version of himself that existed before he hired Boyd has been bent and molded into something a lot more pliable and soft, and it is without a doubt the reason behind the three changes in his life the past week and a half. Someone has ignored him out of awkwardness or _something_ after he conceded that he liked them (since that is technically the implication of _not hating_ them), he has willingly brought a friend(?) back to his apartment to _hang out together_ , and he has been invited to two separate social situations by an additional person he is familiar with. These are things that the old Derek would _never_ have experienced, no matter how drained someone seemed or how warm whiskey-coloured eyes were or how bright and puppy-like someone's expression was.

He doesn't quite know what to make of it. It's _different_ and _new_ , but he's not sure whether it's _good_. Not yet. (Maybe he needs to do some more investigating before he decides.)

Investigating is absolutely _not_ what he's doing when he pulls his jacket on and moves out from behind the counter for the daily lunch-run - especially not when he catches movement in the corner of his eye and discovers Boyd copying his movements.

"I didn't realise you were going," Derek says, eyes twitching narrower until he purposefully relaxes his expression again.

Boyd shrugs a shoulder as he pulls his jacket on. "No, I'll just come with you."

Derek blinks at him. Boyd meets his gaze, giving absolutely nothing away, and then fishes out the " _Closed for lunch_ " sign that Derek didn't even realise he knew about.

It doesn't seem to be up for discussion, so Derek goes through the usual motions of heading out to _Deaton's_ on the lunch-run, just with someone following him this time. Something feels _different_ about this run, though, and it pulls Derek's brows together, makes his jaw clench, taps his fingers on his steering wheel; but he can't put a name to it. There's an uncomfortable feeling crawling up his spine, slipping under his skin and winding down his arms to his fidgeting fingers. Derek's new normal would probably be to engage in some kind of short, succinct conversation with Boyd on the car ride over, but he finds himself regressing back to his old ways, gripping the steering wheel with white-knuckled hands and feeling Boyd's presence in his space like a physical entity _pushing_ against Derek's mind and soul.

Whatever it is that he's feeling, it's because of Boyd - he knows that much. He was mostly fine hanging out with Boyd at the lacrosse game, and lately when they're driving to Derek's place, there's no tension like what he's feeling right now, so he's not entirely sure what it is about Boyd's presence in the car while he goes on the lunch-run that's putting him so on-edge (and makes his stomach clench with anticipation when he imagines them both in the queue ordering their paninis and coffees together).

Nothing eases off as he parks the car and the two of them head towards the coffee shop, together. Walking side by side. Derek is scowling when he opens the door and holds it open for Boyd walking in behind him, and he feels the muscles in his back tense. He lingers there for a moment, glancing outside and then at the side of Boyd's face as his friend looks around the shop, wondering why he's feeling so distinctly uncomfortable.

"Hey, guys, how's it going?" comes an incessantly bright voice.

Derek looks at the counter to see Scott grinning comfortably at him and Boyd, lifting a hand to wave at them casually, and it hits him suddenly that this feels more like a _social visit_ rather than the usual lunchtime obligation between employee and employer to collect sustenance. It feels like _friends_ visiting _friends_.

Boyd returns a greeting to Scott and then walks past Derek to the cluster of tables at the front of the shop, sitting himself down next to Erica. The blonde is apronless today and doesn't seem surprised by Boyd's appearance at all - in fact, she leans in closer to him to show him something on her phone that makes him chuckle quietly.

Derek blinks at the scene, his forehead still wrinkled by his scowl.

"You gonna eat here today?" Scott asks, eyebrows lifted inquisitively as his tone lilts with pleasant surprise.

"Might as well," Boyd answers before Derek can grunt out a refusal.

"Cool, man. You can just sit down and we'll bring the stuff over to you."

Derek remains where he stands, frowning between Boyd and Scott. This feels far too _familiar_ for him. It's not what he had subconsciously prepared for when he'd realised he was the one needing to make the lunch-run. He had anticipated Scott's cheery greeting, maybe some irritating and confusing behaviour from Stiles, a bored drawl from Isaac or smug quip from Erica; but he had _not_ anticipated Boyd's company and the way it changed a chore into an apparent social situation. Derek doesn't _do_ lunches with people, let alone people who might call themselves friends - especially when said people include someone like Stiles, who Derek has noticed at the back of the shop pretending to look busy.

(And Derek doesn't _understand_ why Stiles suddenly wants nothing to do with him, why the barista overnight decided that instead of rambling at Derek as if he was interested in the Big Plan, Stiles now aggressively avoids any eye contact and verbal communication.) (Because Derek _definitely_ isn't interested in anything Stiles has to say, really. Most of the time. Sometimes. The point is, he certainly doesn't _miss_ Stiles' absurd ramblings. At all.)

But Derek isn't one to linger on thoughts of Stiles and his strange behaviour. Trouble is, standing motionless in the middle of _Deaton's_ entryway doesn't inspire a change in the direction of his thoughts. So, reluctantly, Derek follows Boyd's gesture and moves to sit down at the table with his employee/friend and Erica. He sits with his elbows on the table, chin resting on his clasped hands, but then shifts uncomfortably at the proximity to the other two that position forces upon him, so he leans back in his seat and crosses his arms over his chest instead.

"Hey, Derek, you worked alone for a while before you took Boyd on, right?" Scott calls over the end of the counter, leaning his head past stacks of coffee mugs to make eye contact.

Derek blinks, frowning. "Yeah," he answers, wondering what the hell relevance that has to anything.

Scott throws a quick look at the coffee machine, checking the progress of their order, before he leans a hand on the counter and cocks his head at Derek. "How did you find it? Like, transitioning from only being responsible for yourself to suddenly having someone working under you?"

Derek glances at Boyd, but the young man is absorbed in a quiet conversation with Erica. "Uh, I guess it was pretty easy," he responds awkwardly.

Scott runs his teeth over his lower lip, eyes narrowing as he contemplates Derek's answer. "But, like, how did you deal with having to teach someone new everything about the store?"

Derek lifts a hand to scratch his beard. "There wasn't really much to learn. I just needed another body in the store to help keep it organised and deal with customers. Boyd caught on pretty quick."

Scott nods concedingly and moves back to the coffee machine and Derek glances again at Boyd and Erica, wondering if they feel as uncomfortable as he does witnessing the casual conversation Scott had struck up with him. He looks out the window for a moment to try and gather himself, subconsciously checking the windows of _The Bunker_ for any ominous smirking.

The coffee mugs thud dully on the wooden surface of their table when Scott sets them down in front of Boyd and Derek. Derek nods his thanks and reaches for the handle, but his movements falter when Scott slumps into the seat next to him and crosses his arms on the table, his expression scrunching curiously again.

"How do you even begin to teach someone everything about your store, though?" the barista asks quietly, as if establishing that the conversation is only for him and Derek.

Derek sighs and takes a hold of his mug, shifting forward on his seat as he rests his forearms against the edge of the table. "Why are you asking?"

Scott smiles a little nervously, his jawline crooked in a way that could almost be endearing. "Deaton hired a new guy. He's a couple years younger and this is gonna be his first job."

Derek nods. "And you're gonna show him the ropes?"

Scott exhales, his smile fading as the nerves beat out the optimism. "Whatever that means."

Derek clears his throat and glances around, noting that nobody seems to be eyeing this interaction with even a smidgeon of the shock that they probably should (Stiles is behind the counter now, but he seems to be obnoxiously avoiding looking at their table). "People learn in different ways."

"Yeah, but, like, how do I figure out what way's best? What do I even say? What do I _do_ with him all day?"

Derek finds that he has to tilt his head down to try and hide the amusement on his face. If someone told him a few months ago that he'd be _sitting in_ the coffee shop with people who considered him their friend, holding back a _chuckle_ at something one of them said while asking him for _help_ , he'd have probably moved towns to avoid it.

"You'll get a feel for him," Derek assures, lifting his face again to meet Scott's almost-pleading gaze. "You could always just _ask_."

"What if he thinks I'm an idiot? What if I do it wrong and he ends up confused and overwhelmed and quits?"

Derek shrugs a shoulder. "Then he quits," he says. Scott drops his head into his hands, groaning quietly. Derek can't hide his smirk. "Just show him what you do, let him shadow you for a bit. Then you can see if he'd be comfortable trying it out for himself."

Scott runs his fingers over his face until he holds his head up by his jaw, blinking at Derek distractedly. "Okay, so, just do what I usually do for, what, a couple hours or something? And then ask if he wants to try it out? Do I then shadow _him_? Like breathe down his neck while he's serving someone? Or do I just leave him alone and let him figure it out?"

Derek swallows the sip of coffee he took while Scott was rambling and lowers his mug back to the table. "You'll get a feel for what's best when you're actually interacting with him," he says. "There's no point trying to plan every minute of the day before you've even spent any time with the kid."

"What if I can't figure it out?" Scott asks dejectedly.

Derek inhales deeply, trying to downplay the effect of Scott's sad-puppy eyes on him. "Listen, Scott, you're a friendly guy. You're approachable. If you treat the kid the same way you do everyone else, I'm sure he'll feel comfortable to ask for help when he needs it. The more you communicate, the easier it'll make it for both of you to work it out."

Scott's eyes brighten considerably, his fingers lowering from his head as a pleased smile spreads across his face. "Communication - is that how you made it easy with you and Boyd?"

Derek scoffs quietly, glancing at Boyd as he lifts his coffee mug back to his mouth. "Boyd and I communicated a little differently."

"How?"

"Grumpy silence would be my guess," Erica smirks, joining the conversation.

Boyd shrugs. "Pretty much."

"Oh, god, what if he's like you guys?" Scott groans, leaning his cheek on a fist as his eyebrows twist upwards in a helpless expression. "I dunno how to be intimidating and broody."

"I'd pay to see you try," Erica grins. "But he'll probably be a nervous little puppy like you, Scott. Don't worry about it."

Scott rolls his eyes, grinning, but Derek notices the nervous curl at the corner of his mouth.

"You're gonna be good at it," Derek finds himself saying, and he means it.

Scott meets his eyes, his grin softening. "Thanks, man. I feel like I need a manual or something, but I appreciate the vote of confidence."

Derek can't help but smile back at Scott - which is exactly the moment that Stiles drops a couple of plates on the table with their paninis. Derek looks up at him, his smile lingering in his distraction, not really expecting to get anything in response from Stiles. But the young man is staring down at Derek with an unreadable expression, his lips parted gently, sunlight bathing the side of his face and warming his eyes. Derek blinks, caught off-guard by Stiles' sudden and unexpected attention in such close proximity and in such a direct manner. His fingers twitch around his coffee mug, noticing Stiles' hand hanging by Derek's bicep and remembering the feel of the barista's wrist under his fingertips.

"Step nineteen," Stiles blurts.

Derek stares up at him, eyebrows lifting.

Erica snickers quietly and Stiles' eyes dart to her and back to Derek's face, his mouth snapping closed.

"Stiles, man, you're gonna need to give them a little more than that if you want their help," Scott advises.

Derek's eyebrows furrow in response, glancing at Scott. Stiles shifts on his feet, clearly working his jaw in some kind of agitation. When he looks back down at Derek, it's like he's waiting for something. Maybe it's the " _Why the hell should I help you when you've been pretending I don't exist for a week and a half, idiot?_ " that sits primed and ready in Derek's throat to launch at the young man in a tone as gruff and blunt as he can muster (he's totally not annoyed about it, at all).

But Stiles' eyes are doing that _thing_ they do when the sun hits them in _that way_ , and Derek swallows the words, quirking an expectant eyebrow instead.

Stiles blinks. "Uh, right. So, it's Step Nineteen: S is for Scare Tactics," he says. Derek sighs through his nose, and Stiles seems to read his expression. "Right, I know," he nods, gesturing concedingly. "None of us really fit the bill. Except maybe Erica. But she might not be enough."

A new customer walks into the shop and Scott jumps up out of his seat to greet them, hurrying off to resume his station behind the counter while Isaac is busy clearing tables and Stiles is busy doing whatever this is.

"We thought maybe we could hire you two to go into _The Bunker_ and intimidate Argent and his cronies - y'know, scare them into submission," Stiles explains.

"Stiles-" Derek begins, leaning his elbows on the table and rubbing his fingertips over his forehead.

"C'mon, dude, _look at me_ ," Stiles implores, defeated, as he slumps into Scott's seat and leans over the table towards him. "Nobody's gonna look at me and be intimidated, right? The best I can do is shout insults across the street at them - which, by the way, is gonna be the next step if you guys don't take one for the team and end this war today."

Boyd scoffs, lifting an eyebrow at Stiles.

"What?" Stiles demands, defensive. "We'll wear them down with excruciating taunts aimed at their stupid appearances and general unlikeability."

"You're gonna get punched," Erica smirks.

"I can handle it," Stiles rolls his eyes.

"Man, you couldn't handle Allison, never mind the other assholes," Boyd mutters.

"I'm quick and skinny," Stiles retorts. "They'd never catch me."

"You're an idiot," Derek grunts. He's scowling again, he knows he is, but he can't help it. "And you're gonna get yourself hurt."

Stiles scowls, shifting nervously. "Not if you guys help me out, here, and carry out Step Nineteen."

"I'm not gonna intimidate Argent, Stiles."

"You don't even have to _say_ anything," Stiles persists, leaning closer again. "All you need to do is go over there dressed like- well, I guess like _this_ , and just _stand there_ and that'll do the job."

"I'm not gonna encourage this stupid shit," Derek says flatly, pulling his plate closer to him.

"You kinda _are_ if you're not gonna do this, 'cause then I'll need to do the shouting insults thing."

"You don't _need_ to do anything. You could just _not_ insult them."

Stiles groans and slumps back in his seat. "God, you're such a killjoy."

Derek scowls (and he might even feel a little offended). "Only when your idea of fun is getting beaten to a pulp."

"Oh, ha-ha," Stiles snarks. "So, you're just gonna refuse to help me out? Just like that?"

"Yeah, Stiles. Just like that," Derek mutters, and he forces himself not to watch Stiles' back when the barista scoffs and shoves out of his seat to stomp off.

(And Stiles just doesn't realise that if he asked for help with _anything_ else, Derek would be able to stop coming off as such a fucking _killjoy_ , and maybe Stiles would see a different side to Derek that he wouldn't hate the way he obviously hates _this_ side of Derek.)


	9. Step Twenty: T is for Taunting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Scott is a good mentor.
> 
> Stiles is an idiot.
> 
> Jackson loses his shit and Derek has to deal with it.
> 
> Derek meets the Sheriff.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I kind of didn't expect to have this chapter done so soon, but I started writing and ended up in a zone, so here it is. Hope you enjoy!
> 
> Just as a heads up, there is a small fight scene here and there will be mentions of blood. It's not gorey or graphic, but there are mentions!

Derek parks his car a few stores down from _Deaton's_ , spying three figures setting up chairs on the sidewalk outside the coffee shop. He turns the engine off and pulls the key from the ignition, fiddling with the keychain absently as he frowns out of his window at the figures. It's a nice day today with the heat of the sun tempered a little by the white, fluffy clouds, and to anyone else on the street it might just look like the three figures have decided they'd like to sit outside and enjoy the day's comfortable warmth - but Derek knows better. He knows the baristas are setting up for their next step.

He clears his throat and grits his teeth, lifting his hand to open the car door, but then pauses to consider the sleeve of his leather jacket covering his arm. He glances at the figures on the street, irritation bubbling in his chest already, and decides that the jacket might prove inconvenient. Once he's shrugged out of it and tossed it onto his passenger seat, he opens the door and steps out of his car, slamming the door shut behind him with probably more force than necessary.

As he draws closer to _Deaton's_ , he identifies Stiles, Isaac, and Erica sitting in the chairs on the sidewalk - the young men are both wearing their aprons, but Erica is in a pair of ripped black jeans and a loose white t-shirt, suggesting she's doing this on her day off.

"Is there any point in asking whether you idiots have done the logical thing and decided _not_ to piss off Jackson and Ethan today?" Derek asks flatly when he strides up to them, pulling his sunglasses off his face.

"Says the guy wearing the team colours," Erica retorts, smirking under her own sunglasses at him. "You sure you're not here to be our little cheerleader?"

Derek glances down when he hooks the leg of his glasses on the collar of his shirt - which he suddenly and horrifyingly realises is a short-sleeved Henley in a deep, rich _maroon_ (he swears on his life- no, on his _book store_ , that he absolutely did _not_ consciously choose this shirt).

He maintains control of his expression and lifts his gaze back to Erica, ignoring Stiles looking out the corner of his eye at Derek's shirt. "There's nothing little about me," he says, and immediately - _immediately_ \- realises his mistake.

Erica's smirk crawls wider across her face into a wicked, delighted grin. "Nothing?" she challenges, her head cocking.

Derek crosses his arms and ignores Isaac's snort in front of him (and ignores Stiles' head turning slightly to run his gaze over Derek's crossed arms). There's only one way to save his dignity, at this point. He allows a smirk and cocks his head back at Erica. "Nothing."

Stiles coughs and leans his elbow on the arm of his chair, stretching his fingers across his mouth and jaw as his eyebrows shoot upwards, while Erica cackles happily and Isaac holds his fist out for Derek to bump (which he does, but only because it would be rude to leave the barista hanging, and sometimes Derek doesn't like to be rude, okay? Don't look at him like that).

Suddenly Stiles straightens up, lifting his hand from his face to wave it frantically in the air. "Hey, Allison! _Allison_!" he yells. Derek glances across the street to see the young woman pause mid-wipe of a table on the sidewalk outside of _The Bunker_. "Is Jackson in today? I have some interesting titbits I'd like to discuss with him!"

Allison pushes against the table to straighten up, her other hand coming to rest on her hip. "Seriously, Stiles?" she shouts back.

"What? I genuinely have some interesting facts that I'd honestly love to hear his thoughts on!"

Allison shakes her head and leans back over the table, one hand holding her hair out of her face while the other wipes the table down thoroughly.

"Hey, Allison!" Isaac calls out.

Derek glances down at Isaac in front of him, and then moves his gaze to Stiles when the barista turns to look at Isaac, too. Stiles catches Derek's eyes with an unimpressed expression, silently communicating his sincere disapproval of whatever this interaction is about to involve.

"You wanna go for dinner tonight?"

"What'd I tell you?" Stiles mutters, still holding Derek's gaze, and throws his hands into the air, palms-up, in an exasperated gesture. "Isaac, need I remind you that this is Step Twenty: T is for _Taunting_? Not F for Flirting. Cut it out."

"Just 'cause _he's_ got the balls to flirt with who he likes," Erica retorts lowly, an eyebrow lifting over the rim of her sunglasses.

Stiles splutters and whirls around to look at her on his other side. "You shut your mouth, Erica. Shut it all the way. _Shut it_ ," he hisses. (And Derek's amusement hisses out of his body like a balloon letting out air.)

Derek decides he's had enough of the baristas' shenanigans and pushes into _Deaton's_ , his eyes finding Scott at the till serving a couple, and a younger guy down the bottom end of the counter, his eyes snapping to Derek. His hair is short and light, sticking up at odd angles, and his eyes are a brilliant blue, currently blown wide with something that seems a little bit like _fear_ as he stares at Derek.

Derek lifts his chin in greeting and wanders up to the end of the counter, resisting the impulse to look out the window and check on the baristas outside. He knows he's scowling.

"Um, hey, hi, Mr- sir," the young guy stumbles, eye twitching in a subtle wince even as he attempts a comfortable smile.

Derek quirks an eyebrow. "Mr sir?" he repeats.

The young guy's smile drops as he purses his lips, his forehead scrunching a little. "I didn't mean it," he says, his tone a little strained.

Derek latches onto the distraction. "You wanna try again?" he asks, cocking his head.

The barista's face hardens even more, and Derek has to bite back a smirk. "No, actually. I'm good."

"You're good?"

"Yeah."

"You wanna stick with Mr Sir?"

The young guy's jaw clenches aggressively, his upper lip twitching with the hint of a snarl. "Yeah, I do," he bites out. "What can I get you, _Mr Sir_?"

Derek's grin is probably leaning a little heavily on the _shit-eating_ side of things, if he's honest with himself; but the kid got riled up _so_ easily, it's hard not to be amused. He might also be just a little bit impressed by the kid's stubborn determination.

"Woah, hey, okay, Liam. It's okay, it's cool. Chill out, man," Scott's rushed assurances cut through the tension when he appears at Liam's side, placing a firm hand on the younger's shoulder and patting his back with his other hand. He smiles a little nervously, glancing up at Derek and then refocusing on his new colleague. "It's just Derek. He's a friend."

Liam blinks and glances up at Scott, his posture relaxing somewhat. Then he frowns, looks at Derek, then out the window at the three baristas, then at Derek again, and finally back to Scott. "This is Derek?" he asks quietly, as if that means anything.

Scott's eyebrows lift and his lips pout in a slightly caught-out expression, glancing out the window so quickly that Derek almost doesn't catch it. Then he clears his throat, schools his expression into something more casual, and nods. "Uh, yeah, this is Derek, our friend that we were telling you about. The regular," he says, patting Liam's back again while he steers him towards the other end of the counter. "Why don't you get started on his paninis, okay? You remember what they are?"

Liam's eyes brighten and the corner of his mouth curves up. "Uh, yeah. Yeah! I do," he replies, even bouncing a little on the balls of his feet before he hurries off to start making the food.

Scott watches him go, leaning his hands against the counter and exhaling quietly. Derek folds his arms across his chest, allowing a small, satisfied smile.

"What?" Scott asks when he catches Derek's expression.

"Told you you'd be good at this," Derek shrugs.

Scott breathes out a bitter chuckle. "I don't know, man. I mean, yeah, he turned out to not be intimidating and broody like you and Boyd.."

"But he's quick to get angry."

Scott nods, eyebrows lifting. "Yeah. Especially when he makes a mistake."

"You seem like you can calm him down, though," Derek points out.

"Maybe," Scott smiles, a little embarrassed. "What was that, anyway? A test?" he grins as he moves to start on the coffees.

Derek sees him take out two take-away cups and almost corrects him, but decides against it at the last minute. "Just getting a feel for him. He'll need to balance out a little to survive in this place with you idiots."

Scott laughs. "I'm starting to wonder if ' _idiot'_ is just a pet name, in your language."

Derek quirks an eyebrow. "Pretty sure it's not."

Scott glances out the window again before he turns an almost-playful smile at Derek. "Alright, man."

A customer walks out of the shop behind Derek, swinging the door open and thereby allowing for Stiles' shout to leak into the building. "- _not even that handsome! You just have a good jawline_!"

Derek bites off a groan of sheer frustration, bracing his hands against the counter as his chin dips to his chest. "Idiot," he mutters.

Scott snickers quietly to himself, but Derek blinks and clenches his jaw, realising _why_ Scott's so amused (but he's not going to react, say anything, even _think_ anything, so he doesn't end up manifesting anything _stupid_ ).

"At least _one_ of you has the sense to not get involved in this stupid step," Derek grumbles.

Scott pauses and looks over at Derek blankly. "Oh, no. I'm swapping with Isaac in ten minutes."

When Liam brings out Derek's paninis, eyeing him warily, Derek double-checks they're right before he gives the young barista a nod. "Thanks, kid."

Liam's expression loosens slightly and he looks over at Scott like a little puppy waiting to be reassured that he is, in fact, a good boy. Scott grins at his new colleague and Liam beams back at him. Derek rolls his eyes and bids them farewell, pushing out of the coffee shop.

"Hey, Ethan!" Isaac is shouting, slumped so low in his seat he _must_ be getting a sore neck. "You look like the bastard child of Matt Damon and a boulder!"

Erica snorts and Stiles turns on Isaac with an expression of pure repulsion. " _Dude_ , what the hell is up with your taunts? They're _ridiculously_ bad. Like, seriously, just _agonisingly_ terrible. What's-"

Isaac huffs out a sigh. "I dunno, man. My heart's just not in it," he shrugs, bored. "I'm gonna tap out."

Stiles watches him push up out of his chair with a betrayed expression. "What? Fine! Alright, fine. But send Scotty out, alright?"

Stiles catches Derek's eyes when he's turning back to _The Bunker_ , but his mouth snaps shut and he quickly averts his gaze. Derek frowns at him, no closer to understanding why Stiles has been acting so weird since Derek said he didn't hate him. Does he _want_ Derek to hate him? (Derek's stomach clenches when he wonders if _Stiles_ hates _him_.)

He takes the coffees and paninis back to his car, slumping into the driver's seat and tossing the keys onto the passenger seat on top of his discarded jacket. He sits the order in his lap and stares down at it for a moment, trying to forget the knowing smirk Erica had sent him when she'd spotted the extra coffee and panini as he'd been leaving. His coffee cup squeaks a little when he pulls it out from the cardboard holder and he scowls at it like it's laughing at him, putting the holder down on the passenger seat, too. The extra panini joins it a moment later, and then Derek checks out the window that the baristas haven't noticed that he's still sitting in the parking space before he starts on his lunch.

Five minutes after he finished his own panini and busied himself fiddling with his car keys and scowling out of the window, Derek picks up the panini Scott had Liam make for Boyd and starts to eat it, too. He's not even hungry.

He consumes the coffee made for Boyd, too.

He's been sat here for about fifteen minutes, subtly monitoring the whole _T is for Taunting_ situation, twirling his keychain around his finger and catching it in his palm repeatedly, and he's running out of excuses to stay any longer. But Boyd's words from a few days ago keep running through his head: " _Man, you couldn't handle Allison, never mind the other assholes._ " It doesn't seem like the baristas are insulting Allison (even though she's literally Argent's child), but they're all-too-happy to insult the young men working in _The Bunker_ \- young men who have strong arms and mean smirks, who have _already_ proven their ability to bring harm to the baristas (Stiles).

In the end, it's actually pretty efficient of Derek to be playing with his car keys - it means they get jammed into the ignition faster than the blink of an eye as soon as Derek sees Jackson burst out of _The Bunker_ 's door with Ethan on his heels. As safely and as quickly as he can, Derek revs his car up to a free space outside the coffee shop and jumps out, slamming the door noisily in the hopes that it'll grab the attention of the two young men nearly on _Deaton's_ side of the street.

He doesn't have time for satisfaction when their heads snap towards him at the noise; he just strides over to Stiles, Scott, and Erica. "Get inside," he snaps quietly, glowering at them.

Stiles scoffs incredulously. "Don't be so dramatic, dude."

But he and Scott both get to their feet as Jackson and Ethan approach. Erica just continues to lounge in her chair, peering out over the top of her sunglasses at them.

"I've had enough of your shit, Stilinski," Jackson hisses.

Derek turns to face them, taking a step to place himself more between the two groups. His fists clench at his sides and he strives to morph his expression into something a little more calmly-enraged (because Jackson looks ready to pummel Stiles and the thought of that makes something _red_ and _twisted_ and _loud_ blaze in Derek's chest).

"Dude, _who are you_?" Jackson snaps at him. "This has nothing to do with you."

"He's our friend and he's _much_ bigger than you are!" Stiles blurts from behind Derek's shoulder, in a voice full of forced-bravado.

Derek's teeth bite into each other so hard he's surprised they don't crumble (and, _seriously_ , Stiles? _Now_ Derek's your friend? After so long _ignoring_ him?). "Shut up, Stiles," Derek grinds out.

"Oh, so it _is_ a fight you want?" Jackson asks, eyebrows jumping as he scoffs with a bitter laugh.

"Jackson, it's not worth a fight," Ethan mutters, leaning close to his boyfriend's side.

"Of _course_ you want a fight," Jackson continues, shrugging Ethan away. "I mean, why else would you be constantly harassing us like this, right?"

"Why don't you go back inside and cool off?" Derek suggests, his words clipped, eyebrows pinched.

"What, so that _he_ can start up his next ridiculous plan to provoke me?" Jackson scoffs, jutting his chin over Derek's shoulder at Stiles.

" _Walk away_ , Jackson," Derek bites out. "Be the bigger person - it's much more satisfying."

Jackson smirks in a way that makes _all_ of Derek's cells flare with tension. "I disagree."

"Jackson-" Ethan tries again.

"Just 'cause your dad's the Sheriff, doesn't mean you're safe," Jackson spits at Stiles. " _Try me_ , asshole."

Derek has to blink the red out of his vision as he takes a menacing step towards Jackson, aware of Ethan tensing in his peripherals. "Listen, ignore him, play his game, I don't give a shit, alright? But if I see you go for him again - if I hear a _whisper_ of a threat against him, or any of them - I'll break every bone in your fucking body. Got it?"

"You shouldn't have said that," Ethan smirks, and it's all the warning Derek gets before his face twists and his fist comes flying at Derek's nose.

Derek blocks the punch with his forearm, his free hand already curled into a solid fist that he throws back at Ethan, adrenaline jumping through his veins. He only feels a little guilty about the grim satisfaction that thuds in his chest when his knuckles crack against Ethan's cheek and the guy jerks to the side, stumbling.

" _Hey_!" Jackson barks, lunging for Derek.

Derek sidesteps the attack and gets a grip of the back of Jackson's shirt, yanking the barista back and shoving him away from the cluster of _Deaton's_ baristas still stood behind him. Well, until Stiles lets out a warcry as he and Scott charge at Ethan, tackling him to the ground before he can come back at Derek.

" _Stiles_!" Derek shouts, because Scott seems to be pretty effective and capable in his attempt to restrain Ethan and keep him grounded, but Stiles is _flailing_ like a fucking fish on dry land trying to get a hold of Ethan's free arm while avoiding his kicking foot, and Derek can just imagine having to explain to the guy's dad that he'd somehow managed to choke himself to death doing something _completely unnecessary_.

But Jackson is running at Derek again and he has to divert his attention away from the idiot who got him into this mess. Jackson's attacks are rapid and messy, enough that Derek can easily block them and push Jackson back a few steps with some swift, efficient moves of his own, but also enough to keep him busy and unavailable to help Stiles.

"Wait, Stiles, _stop_!" Scott shouts, and then grunts loudly.

Derek nearly growls when he throws a look over at the others, seeing Ethan breaking free of Stiles and Scott's grips as the former gapes at the latter's face, which is covered in blood from what looks to be a burst nose.

"Oh, _shit_ -" Stiles yelps, his face twisting with distress and then fear as Ethan gets back to his feet and turns an enraged glare on Scott.

He's lifting his foot as if to _kick_ Scott while he's down when Liam suddenly comes barreling out of nowhere, shouting loudly. The new kid launches himself onto Ethan's back, arms curling tightly around his neck and head, and Ethan stumbles a couple of steps before he falls to the ground with Liam still wrapped around him like a koala bear.

And then Derek's head snaps back as a fist slams into his mouth, feeling his tooth puncture his lip. He spits out a curse and blocks the punch Jackson throws immediately after, kicking out at the guy's knee to bring him down to the ground.

"Everybody _stop_!" Derek barks out, his rage making way for pure _irritation_. "This is fucking ridiculous, and it ends now."

To his surprise, most of them freeze and stare at him. Jackson is on his side at Derek's feet, panting, glaring up at him, Stiles' hands are on Scott's face as if he can plug Scott's nose with his _fingers_ to stop the bleeding while Scott gapes at Derek, and Ethan is grunting as he struggles under Liam's weight, also glaring at Derek.

"Liam, get off of him," Derek grunts, lifting the back of his hand to wipe it across his lip and collect some of the blood oozing out.

Scott slaps Stiles' hands away from his face, replacing them with his own to pinch the bridge of his nose, and he scrambles onto his knees, his head swivelling until he focuses on Liam. The new barista is still grunting on top of Ethan, struggling to maintain his hold. "Liam, stop!" Scott calls through his blood, spitting it onto his wrist.

Liam stills instantly, wide eyes turning to stare at Scott. "But he broke your nose!" he protests.

"It's not broken," Scott reassures him, though his words are a little distorted. "C'mere."

Liam untangles himself from Ethan, glancing at the older guy warily until he hurries over to Scott's side and helps him onto his feet.

"Are you okay, man?" Stiles asks quietly, materialising at Derek's elbow with wide, startled eyes following the path of Derek's hand across his mouth.

"This is the _last_ time you are doing _anything_ to provoke these guys," Derek grunts out, scowling down at Stiles. "Okay?"

Stiles lifts his gaze from Derek's lip to his eyes and blinks, swallowing. "Yeah, that's probably smart. Tactical retreat."

Derek's shoulders roll back as he breathes a sigh of relief. Then he turns to Jackson and offers his unbloodied hand to help the other guy up off the ground. Jackson glares between him and Stiles for a moment, and then finally mutters something under his breath and slaps his hand into Derek's grip, accepting the help.

"Stiles, I swear to God, you're gonna put me in an early grave."

Stiles flinches and spins on his feet, turning to face a middle-aged man in the Sheriff's uniform. The Sheriff's face is contorted in an image of sheer exasperation, eyebrows twisted and lips pursed.

"Oh, uh, hey, dad. What're you doin' here, man?" Stiles stutters nervously.

"Someone phoned the _police_ , Stiles. Because _apparently_ there were a bunch of young men brawling on the street like neanderthals."

"Oh, uh, here? No, there's none of that goin' on, here, pops. Nothing like that. No brawling. Just civilised-"

" _Stiles._ Shut up," the Sheriff snaps, moving past his son with his gaze fixed on Scott. "I'm gonna assume this is somehow my son's fault," the man says as he peers past Scott's hand at his bloodied face. "Maybe you should call your mom."

Scott's eyes widen. "No! No, I don't need to do that. She doesn't have to come. I'm fine. I just need some napkins."

"Alright," the Sheriff concedes, glancing at Liam who is still supporting Scott with his arm over the younger's shoulder as if he's been shot in the leg, or something. "Who are you?"

Stiles hisses quietly and Derek instantly hones in on the noise, turning to look at the barista sharply. Stiles' head is bowed, his fingers pulling his sleeve up to try and expose his elbow, his forehead wrinkled unhappily.

Derek is only faintly aware of the Sheriff telling Liam to take Scott inside before moving to help Ethan up off the ground, too busy concentrating on Stiles as he reaches out to take the barista's arm in his unbloodied hand. Stiles inhales sharply as Derek lifts and tilts his arm in a way that he can see the elbow, frowning when he spots the blood shining a bright crimson against Stiles' pale skin.

"Does it hurt?" he asks, and his voice comes out far too soft.

Stiles blinks up at him. "It's stingy," he mutters pitifully.

Derek lets out a short breath through his lips, which have - to his _horror_ \- spread in a small, incredulous (but amused) smile. "Idiot," he murmurs.

"Your teeth are covered in blood," Stiles replies, his voice strangely quiet and soft for the message it's communicating.

Derek hums an agreement, running his tongue over his punctured lip and wincing slightly at the flare of pain.

"So, what the hell _was_ this?" a voice asks loudly, snapping Derek's attention back to the Sheriff. The man gestures with a confused expression at Derek and Stiles. "Some hormone-driven fight to defend my son's honour?"

Derek frowns, mouth opening silently. Then he blinks and realises he still has a grip of Stiles' arm. He drops it gently and tucks his hand into his pocket. "Self-defense, for me," he replies. "And an absurd lack of self-preservation for the others."

"Hey," Stiles mutters indignantly.

"Yeah, that tracks," Sheriff Stilinski sighs, lifting a hand to rub his forehead.

"You should really control your son, Sheriff," Jackson bites out, now pressed against Ethan's side.

"That another threat, Jackson?" Derek calls out impulsively, crossing his arms as he lifts his chin.

Jackson's jaw clenches as he glares back at Derek, but he says nothing.

"Alright, settle down," the Sheriff warns. "Who threw the first punch?"

"I did, sir, because _he_ threatened my-" Ethan tries, pointing at Derek.

"How many threats have been _made_ today, exactly?" Stilinski asks, face contorted incredulously.

"Uh, I'd say a healthy amount," Stiles shrugs.

"There's no such thing, Stiles."

"Then you probably don't want an exact figure."

Stilinski sighs and puts his hands on his hips, shaking his head. "Alright. Sounds like there was blame on both sides. How about you all walk away with a warning to stop acting like a bunch of angsty teenagers? Stiles, since I'm certain you have more to do with this than anyone else, you're gonna stop whatever the hell it was that brought this whole situation about. As for the rest of you, if I see you in a similar situation again, you'll spend a night in the station. Am I clear?"

" _Dad_ -" Stiles tries, incredulous.

Derek jerks an elbow into Stiles' side to shut him up, watching the Sheriff follow the interaction with a quirked eyebrow. "Yes, Sheriff," Derek responds.

"Fine," Stiles mutters, rubbing his side with a petulant scowl.

"Yes, sir," Jackson and Ethan intone.

"You boys should probably get back to work," Stilinski nods at the two of them. When _The Bunker_ 's baristas turn away from the scene and start across the street again, the Sheriff steps over to Stiles and Derek. "So, are you a new colleague as well?" he asks Derek.

Derek uncrosses his arms to extend his unbloodied hand. "Derek Hale," he introduces. "I own _Books_. I come here for lunch."

Stilinski's eyebrow quirks again as he shakes Derek's hand. "Hale? I thought I recognised you. I apologise on my son's behalf for getting you into this mess."

"I didn't-" Stiles tries.

"I appreciate that, Sheriff," Derek interrupts, holding back a smirk.

"Your lip alright?" Stilinski asks, frowning.

Derek wipes at the blood again. It's already starting to slow. "Yeah, it's fine. Thanks."

"My elbow's really sore, if anyone's interested," Stiles gripes.

"Shut up and get your friend some napkins and water, Stiles."

Derek smirks when he watches Stiles groan and stomp off into _Deaton's_.

"You should forget you ever met my son, if you aren't in too deep already," Stilinski comments exasperatedly. "Would save you a whole lotta grief, I'm tellin' you."

Derek ignores what _in too deep_ might mean to Stilinski, never mind what it might mean to _himself_. "Yeah, I might just take your advice."

"How are your sisters doing, anyway?" Stilinski asks, his tone more earnest now.

Derek blinks at him, crossing his arms over his chest. "They're doing well, thank you."

Stilinski nods, pleased to hear it. "And your uncle?"

Derek quirks an eyebrow and glances beyond the Sheriff. "Bitter and sarcastic and a pain in my ass," he intones dryly. Then he turns a small smile back on Stilinski. "But we're alright."

Stilinski smiles gently. "I'm glad, son."

"Alright, here's your napkins and water and also a slice of cake because _apparently_ I owe everyone a free slice of cake," Stiles rambles as he pushes out of the coffee shop, his arms full. "I put it in a box - figured you weren't gonna hang around."

Derek tries to ignore the way that Stiles clearly finds it difficult to make eye-contact. "How's Scott?" he asks, taking the items from Stiles' arms efficiently.

"Uh, he's stopped bleeding, I think. Erica's cleaning him up in the staff bathroom."

"God knows how that boy has survived being your best friend for so long," Stilinski mutters.

"Uh, I think you'll find that Scott has survived so long _because_ he's my best friend."

"Sure, kid. Now, get back to work before you end up fired, on top of everything else."

Stiles barely mutters a goodbye before he spins on his heels and hurries back inside. Derek tries not to frown at his back.

"I don't understand my son about 99% percent of the time," Stilinski says wearily, crossing his arms as he looks back at Derek curiously. "You're friends?" he asks, as if needing the situation clarified.

Derek glances through the shop window, noticing Isaac and Stiles behind the counter, with Liam cleaning tables. "I come here for lunch every day," he answers. He looks back at Stilinski to find a quirked eyebrow. "My employee, Boyd, refuses to eat anywhere else."

"That right?" Stilinski says, nodding with a thoughtful pout as he throws a look through the window as well. Derek has a feeling he doesn't buy the explanation. "Well, I suppose you should get back to Boyd and your store. I'll need to swing by when I have the time." He reaches out to pat Derek's shoulder. "It was good to see you, Derek. Take care of yourself."

Derek nods a little dumbly. "Yes, sir."

He steps aside to let the Sheriff pass and glances across the street at _The Bunker_ to reassure himself that Jackson isn't just waiting for him to leave before he goes for Stiles again. With a final run of his tongue over his split lip, Derek repositions the supplies in his arms and makes his way over to his car.

When he returns to his store, taking down the " _Closed for lunch_ " sign, he supposes it's lucky that Boyd's not working today, otherwise he'd have to stand there and explain his injury. Although, Erica's probably already told Boyd everything about the fight, anyway, which means the explanation's just going to be demanded tomorrow, at the latest. Derek runs a hand over his face and remembers Stilinski's words, figuring that they're as good an explanation as any:

He's in too deep.


	10. Step Twenty-Two: V is for Virtual Annihilation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Derek attends an event close to his heart, even if he's uncomfortable the whole time. 
> 
> We meet some Hale family members.
> 
> Stiles comes clean about his weird behaviour.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took me so long, omg. I was too busy figuring out what everyone would wear lmaooo (if you're curious, you can see their outfits on my tumblr: the-nerdnextdoor! Hope the fluff and characterisation is alright in this chapter.. let me know what you think x

"-with a freakin' _shovel_ , dude. I'm gonna kill you _so hard_."

Derek pauses in the doorway of _Deaton's_ , his head swivelling towards the source of the aggressive muttering. It's not a surprise, for obvious reasons, to find Stiles hunched over a laptop at a table, his eyebrows furrowed and mouth twisted hatefully from what Derek can see of his face side-on. There's an unfamiliar young woman sitting with him, her seat moved closer to his so she can also lean into the laptop. She's watching whatever he's doing with narrowed eyes and a furrowed brow, and she bares her teeth, glancing down at Stiles' fingers on the keyboard as if she wants to take over.

Derek can feel the question on the tip of his tongue, and he even inhales the breath required to ask the question, but he blinks and frowns and swallows the words, turning his attention to the counter. It's been a couple of weeks since he got in a fight over Stiles like some smitten high-schooler, and the barista is yet to go back to treating Derek the way he used to. Maybe he never will; maybe they're doomed to this unnecessary and unexplained awkwardness forever. Derek isn't quite sure where he went wrong.

Liam starts to make the coffees and paninis and Derek moves up to the till, where Isaac stands waiting for him.

"Hey, man," the barista greets boredly.

"What's goin' on?" Derek responds, handing the money over.

"Well, the tiny ball of fury is settling in nicely but he follows me around whenever Scott's not in, Scott is turning into some kind of wise, responsible asshole to try and be a good mentor, Stiles is back on his bullshit, Erica's-"

"What? What do you mean?" Derek scowls, his voice quiet but sharp.

Isaac gives him a look, but Derek just glares. "Ugh, _fine_. He's back to that dumb plan of his."

" _Idiot_ ," Derek hisses, throwing a glare down the counter towards the young man in question. "Even after what happened?"

"Wait! I know about this!" Liam announces, suddenly appearing at Isaac's elbow. His eyebrows are lifted into his hairline, eyes bright and wide, and his mouth is tilted in a half-grin. Derek quirks an eyebrow at him to encourage an elaboration. "Scott said that you might not be happy about it and that Stiles might not explain himself because he's doing that stupid thing where he's trying not to talk to you and-"

"Liam, get to the point or you're fired," Isaac intones.

Liam frowns up at him for a moment, his cheeks flushing a faint red. "It's Step Twenty-Two: V is for Virtual Annihilation," he recites.

"What the hell does that mean?" Derek grunts.

"It means he's playing some game with Aiden where they battle each other, or something. Scott said Stiles had to rethink the last few steps of the plan because Deaton got them into a _lot_ of trouble for causing a fight. So, he's playing video games instead."

Derek frowns at the back of Stiles' head, considering this information. "Who's that with him?"

"Oh, that's Malia," Isaac answers. "She's a cold-blooded killer. Stiles needed someone to match his hateful energy so he recruited her a while back. She's the only one as viciously invested in this as him."

Derek watches the two of them closely, trying to spot any signs of a relationship other than friends. "They're perfect for each other, then," he says evenly, watching for Isaac's reaction.

The barista scoffs. "It's like a tornado and a tsunami clashing. It's chaotic and horrifying. If they spent more time together than their weekly hangouts, I'm pretty sure they'd destroy the entire world and each other with it. I wouldn't quite call them soulmates."

Derek nods, satisfied. "As long as they're not provoking Jackson again."

"He's under strict orders not to," Liam grins when he delivers the coffees and paninis.

Derek nearly frowns at the younger guy, his relentless sunshine-smile and blue-sky-eyes proving almost unbearable. He sticks his change in the tip jar, thanks the two baristas, and heads to the door. He feels a strange sense of curiosity and confidence, fuelled solely by Liam's comment about Stiles _trying not to talk_ to Derek (as if he _wants_ to talk or _can't help but_ talk), and he finds himself throwing a glance to Stiles as he walks past.

"See you later, Stiles."

Stiles' eyes nearly bug out of his head when his head snaps round from the laptop to look at Derek. "What? Oh, uh, hey, man," he splutters stupidly, eyes darting up and down Derek's body to take him in. "Yeah, no, uh, see you later. Yeah. Sure. Later. I'll see-"

Malia slaps the back of his head, shouting about him being an idiot and letting his character die, but Stiles can only glance at her for a millisecond before looking back at Derek. (And if Derek climbs into his car with a smug smirk plastered across his face, well, nobody needs to know that.)

**xxxxxxxxxxxxxx**

Derek inhales deeply and rolls his shoulders back, his fingers gently grasping the stem of his champagne glass. His other hand is tucked neatly into the pocket of his suit trousers, hidden away where no one can see his fingers picking at each other. He's never been comfortable at events. He's even less comfortable at _this_ event, but he attends it every year, no matter what.

There's a respectable crowd gathered in the hall. Groups have filtered off to mingle amongst themselves at this stage in the night, meandering the space leisurely while they chat. Derek recognises a few of the faces from previous years, and some staff who he'll need to make sure and talk to before the night's done, but he's never really been one to actually socialise at these events and spend longer than a couple of hours there - he's usually back in his sweats in his apartment by the time the night begins to draw to an end for everyone else. He feels a little better this year, with Boyd standing next to him, especially since he doubts the young man will protest leaving early.

But he _does_ feel a little guilty. Derek's wearing his charcoal-grey, three-piece suit, a white shirt, and a black tie, relatively comfortable in the outfit since it's the one he's worn the last three years in a row. Boyd, to his credit, looks the most suave Derek has ever seen him, in his crimson suit with a white shirt buttoned up to the collar, and a pale-red pocket square tucked into his jacket pocket, elegantly patterned in white - he decided against a tie, but the outfit is so sleek and fashionable that it doesn't need one. However, even if Boyd looks like he's walked off a photoshoot for some fancy clothing line, Derek still feels guilty.

"You didn't have to come," he says (and so what if it isn't the first time he's said it tonight?).

Boyd finishes taking a sip from his own champagne glass, his eyes still wandering around the hall and the artwork on display. "Do you remember when I told you I was planning on coming tonight and you didn't even realise I knew it was happening?" he replies.

Derek's mouth flattens into a line, giving Boyd a faintly-irritated look when the young man meets his eyes.

Boyd smirks at him - and there's definitely something _Erica_ in it. "It's a good cause, Derek. I'm not only here for you."

"Yes, Derek, perhaps it's time you took that ego of yours down a notch."

Derek doesn't even have time to roll his eyes or send an apologetic look to Boyd before his uncle twists around Derek's shoulder, head cocked and mouth twisted in an I'm-being-intolerable-and-I-love-it smirk. He pinches the champagne glass from Derek's fingers and sets it down on the tray of a passing waiter, replacing it with a tumbler of whiskey.

"Don't give me that look - we both know you won't survive the night without something stiffer than that bubbly monstrosity."

Derek exhales sharply. "I wasn't sure you were coming," he says, refusing to insist that he _had_ actually been enjoying his champagne, because Peter has a _talent_ of debating someone in a way that belittles them any chance he can get, and Derek does not have the patience for it.

Peter hums and lifts his chin as he sweeps his gaze across the room, tucking a hand into his suit trousers. This year, he's in an emerald suit jacket and trousers, and a white shirt with the top three buttons undone. His beard is trimmed neatly down to his jaw and his hair has been carefully and fashionably coiffed - always the one to preen himself religiously and flaunt the results proudly.

"I was curious to see what kind of donations came in this year," he muses.

Derek _does_ roll his eyes at that. Because Peter - in one of the rare acts of genuine philanthropy he commits - has never once missed gifting a ridiculously-generous, anonymous donation to Satomi's orphanage. He has done it every year since he recovered from his coma and was well enough to take Derek and his sisters into his own care, as a sign of gratitude to Satomi. That and supporting his nieces and nephew's lives and careers are the few redeeming qualities Peter has.

"Boyd, this is my uncle Peter," Derek introduces, making sure to give Boyd an expression that reveals his disdain. "Peter, this is Boyd."

Peter sniffs haughtily and redirects his attention to the two of them, plastering a charming smile across his face when he reaches out to shake Boyd's hand. "A pleasure," he assures. "And I suppose I should thank you for keeping my recluse of a nephew company in that stale store of his."

Boyd merely quirks an eyebrow in response, shaking the man's hand.

"It's not stale," Derek bites out, infuriated that Peter _always_ manages to annoy him into rising to the bait.

Peter's face twists with feigned contemplation, cocking his head at Derek. "Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't realise it was no longer named _Books_. Tell me, what name have you deemed fit to convey the essence of the store - which, I presume, is something other than stale - now?"

Derek grits his teeth silently, casting his angry glare across the hall to an unsuspecting piece of art.

"It's minimalistic and honest," Boyd shrugs next to him. "It suits Derek."

"Oh, _lord_ ," Peter mutters dramatically, rolling his eyes. "You two must be just a _barrel_ of laughs in that place. You'll have to excuse me while I attempt to find some company with a more cultivated vocabulary and an actual personality."

When he stalks off, Derek takes a sip of whiskey, his lip twitching at the taste of it. He doesn't even _like_ whiskey that much (even if Peter's right that he usually _does_ need something stiffer than champagne to stomach the socialising at this event).

"How many times a year do you have to see him?" Boyd asks quietly, watching Peter walk away.

"Too often," Derek grunts.

Boyd throws him another smirk. The two of them take a step backwards when a group of chatting couples squeeze by them, Derek nodding at them when they give him a brief smile of recognition. He notices Boyd lift his wrist and pull his sleeve back with a finger to check his watch.

"You don't need to stay all night," Derek reassures him, gesturing his glass towards Boyd's wrist. "I usually leave before hour-three hits, anyway."

The corner of Boyd's mouth pulls into his cheek when he shakes his head. "It's not that," he replies. Then he lifts his near-empty glass into view. "You want anything from the bar?"

"I'm fine, thanks."

Derek watches Boyd walk for a moment, his eyes narrowing slightly while he wonders _why_ exactly Boyd's here. He'd never once mentioned the event to Boyd before and had therefore given no indication that he'd be more comfortable having someone like Boyd there with him, but it _feels_ like Boyd has come _for Derek_. He doubts Brett or Lori managed or wanted to tell Boyd that Derek always looked uncomfortable or was always alone at the yearly event, and nobody else would have any reason to speak to Boyd about it, so Derek has no clue where Boyd even got the idea to come here _for his sake_ from. Unless Boyd just put two and two together and figured by himself that Derek would silently appreciate the company (which, he supposes, isn't such a far-fetched notion).

He's tilting another sip of whiskey into his mouth when he hears a familiar voice behind him.

"Hey, Derek. Lookin' sharp."

Derek's eyebrows furrow when he turns around and finds _Theo_ walking up to him. The young man is in a loose, white shirt with a pattern of grey leaves, rolled up to his elbows with the top three- no, _four_ buttons undone and exposing a slab of firm, tanned skin. His dark dress pants are rolled at the ankles above a pair of smart, brown shoes, and his beard has been shaved down to a neat, dark stubble. The grin he throws up at Derek is smug, but covering an uneasiness that Derek relates to.

"What? Truckers aren't allowed to be stylish?" Theo teases.

Derek allows a smirk of his own in response. "I'm just surprised to see you here."

Theo tucks his hands into his pockets and shrugs, looking around the hall. "Boyd told me about it last week and I had the night off, so. Figured a bit of socialising couldn't hurt."

"You'd be surprised," Derek intones, catching sight of his uncle across the hall mingling expertly with other well-off citizens.

"So, uh, what exactly is the situation, anyway?" Theo asks, nodding at a piece of artwork nearby.

Derek looks over at it, even though he's hidden his gaze in the canvas more times than he can count this evening. The painting is fairly simple, in terms of the subject - a pink sunset over the silhouette of some buildings - but the little card to the right of the canvas adds meaning.

"Satomi encourages the kids to express themselves creatively," Derek explains. "Most of them paint."

Theo steps closer to the canvas to read the card next to it. "This girl painted this the night she found out she was getting fostered for the first time," he realises. He takes another step back and cocks his head, regarding the painting silently.

Derek follows his gaze, his fingers picking at each other in his pocket. He can see the warmth, the hope and excitement, in the pinks and subtle oranges of the sunset; but he can also see the tragedy and loneliness in the dark purples and blues of the buildings. There's a lingering ache in his bones, his soul, that always pulses deep and harrowed at this event, and this year is no different.

"This is really good," Theo says quietly. "There's a lot of good artwork here, actually. Does anyone ever buy any?"

Derek shrugs a shoulder. "Sometimes. A lot of the kids like to keep them, though."

Theo nods distractedly and moves away to look at the next canvas along, but Derek stays where he is, taking in a deep, quiet breath and trying not to clench his jaw. He lifts his glass to take another drink, sending a somewhat-petulant glance at Peter and the man's ability to read Derek. He almost wishes Stiles were here - at least the barista could ramble on about _steps_ and _justice_ and distract Derek from the bitter taste of loss on his tongue.

"Oh, damn, wait- are we seriously-underdressed? I think we're underdressed. Maybe we should go back and change into-"

"Shut up, Stiles. It's not our fault you chose to dress like you have no personality. The rest of us look incredible and it'd be a waste to leave, so we're staying."

Derek's face has gone slack (and part of him wonders if he somehow _summoned_ this). He turns his head to look over his shoulder towards the entrance, his eyes dancing over the group of people stopped just inside. At the front, standing arm-in-arm, are Lydia and Danny. Lydia's in a black-and-white patterned dress with mid-length, loose sleeves, a black collar, and a black strip around the waist. She stands in a pair of baby-blue heels and carries a black clutch, her hip cocked as she surveys the hall. Danny is in a red, velvet suit jacket with a dark, floral-patterned shirt underneath and a set of dark dress pants and shoes. The two of them seem to simultaneously spot the bar and share a cheeky smile before sauntering off towards it. Isaac, dressed in a white t-shirt with an off-white, subtly-patterned blazer and a pair of skinny jeans, offers his hand to Allison, who is wearing a sleeveless, white dress and green (Derek isn't sure about that colour, if he's honest) heels, and the two of them follow after Danny and Lydia.

Derek's eyes travel across Liam next, the younger guy dressed in a dark-grey, chequered shirt, black skinny jeans, and black dress shoes. At his side is Scott, grinning brightly in a dark-blue suit jacket and trousers, with a black shirt dotted by white and unbuttoned at the collar. The young woman next to Scott is wearing a sleeveless jumpsuit, almost the same colour as Scott's suit, with long trousers and a neckline that plunges to the top of her stomach - Derek recognises the small scowl she sends Liam when he says something quietly and identifies her as Malia, the woman he saw earlier in _Deaton's_.

Behind the three of them is Erica, wearing a sleeveless, black dress and black heels with intricate straps, and Kira, who is wearing a matching set of long, white trousers and a crop top with thin stripes, covered by a long, white coat. And, flanked between the two young women, wearing a deep-navy suit jacket and trousers with a pale-blue shirt unbuttoned at the collar, is _Stiles_. His stubble is neatly trimmed around his mouth and along his jaw, and his hair looks soft and fluffy, coiffed back away from his face without a hint of product (as in, devoid of the awful gel that stuck his hair up in a myriad of directions back when Derek first met him).

"Friends of yours?" Theo's voice snaps Derek's attention away from the group, his head swivelling back around to look at the truck driver. "Boyd said there'd be more people." His eyebrows twitch inwards subtly, and Derek suddenly realises the main reason behind Theo's uneasiness.

Clearly, Boyd invited both Theo and the employees and associates of _Deaton's_ , and Derek's most likely the only person who was _not_ warned. (He'll figure out whether he's annoyed about that later, when he manages to pry his brain away from the image of Stiles' neck in the unbuttoned collar of a shirt.)

"I didn't know they were coming," Derek finds himself saying.

"Well, they're coming over now."

He clears his throat and rolls his shoulders back before he twists his body to face the group side-on. Most of them have peeled off to visit the bar, but Scott is walking over with a happy smile, Liam at his elbow and Stiles trailing behind.

"Hey, Derek," Scott greets cheerfully. "You look good, man."

Derek blinks. "You too," he responds a little awkwardly. "Uh, this is Theo. Theo this-"

"Wait," Theo says quickly, stepping closer, frowning. " _Scott_?"

Scott blinks, his face slackening in shock for a brief moment before an amazed grin lights it up again. " _Theo Raeken_? Dude, seriously?" he laughs. Their hands clap together as they pull each other in for a shoulder-bump, slapping each other's backs enthusiastically. "Oh my god, man, it's been _years_!"

"I haven't seen you since the fourth grade," Theo replies, his face twisted with amused disbelief as he steps back next to Derek again.

"I know!" Scott laughs delightedly. He turns to look at his side, slapping a hand out. "Stiles, dude, it's Theo!"

Stiles clears his throat and Derek finally lets himself look over at the barista, watching his thin fingers reach up to tug at the collar of his shirt, his face the picture of confusion. "Uh, what, sorry?" he frowns. Then his eyes widen and he throws his hands out in shock, gaping at Theo. "Dude, oh my god," he splutters. He laughs a little distractedly when Theo steps forward to greet him the same way he did Scott. "Wow, you look good, man. How long's it been?"

"Since fourth grade," Theo repeats, his eyebrows twisting subtly in amusement. "I had no idea you guys were still in town."

"Oh, we'll never leave," Stiles scoffs, pulling at the cuffs of his jacket with a lopsided smirk. "Beacon Hills would burn to the ground without us."

"Pretty sure the opposite's the truth," Derek can't help but contest.

Scott laughs while Stiles pouts petulantly. "What are you up to, man?"

"Uh, I'm actually a truck driver," Theo replies, a little sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck. "Not very glamorous."

"Wait, so you just, like, go on road trips for a living?" Liam asks, his eyes all bright and his mouth curling with the promise of a grin.

Derek watches Theo blink, staring at the younger guy. "Yeah, I guess you could put it that way."

"That's awesome, man," Liam beams. "You drive one of those big trucks?"

Theo's mouth twitches into his cheek. "Not the _big-_ big ones."

"Okay, good. They freak me out a little."

Theo's laugh bursts out of him as if he didn't expect it. "Why?"

Derek doesn't think he's _ever_ seen Theo so emotive.

"I dunno, they're just _huge_ and scary. I mean, if you get hit by that, you're done for. You're a pancake."

"Well, everything's _huge_ to you, little guy," Stiles winces.

Liam throws him a quick scowl, his cheeks reddening.

Scott grins good-naturedly and throws an arm over Liam's shoulder. "This is Liam. Liam, this is Theo."

Theo's smile softens as he reaches out to shake Liam's hand. "Good to meet you, Liam."

"Thanks. Uh, you too," Liam smiles nervously.

Derek quirks an eyebrow and catches Stiles' eyes, watching the barista's mouth pinch in an attempt not to smile.

"So, what are you guys up to?" Theo asks.

"We work at a coffee shop," Scott answers. " _Deaton's Dream Beans_."

Theo glances at Derek warily. "That's a joke, right?"

Derek can practically _feel_ the change in energy from Stiles, and he removes his free hand from his pocket to hold it out placatingly in front of the barista. "Don't start a fight, Stiles. You _know_ it's a weird name."

Stiles shoves his hands in his pockets and pushes his shoulders back, muttering under his breath.

"Oh, I think the guys are being served. I'm gonna go get a drink," Scott says, already turning to walk away. Liam blinks and moves to follow him, sending a glance at Theo.

"I could do with a drink," Theo shrugs, following as well.

Stiles seems to realise at the last minute that he is now alone with Derek. "Oh, are they, uh- okay. Alright. Cool."

Derek watches him in his peripherals. "Do you want a drink?"

Stiles blinks at him, glances at his friends' retreating backs, and then looks at Derek again. "Uh, no. No, I'm fine." He averts his gaze, then, and rocks back on his heels awkwardly.

Derek stares at him, frowning. He takes another sip of whiskey and swallows it down with barely a wince. His free hand tucks back inside his pocket where his fingers can pick at each other again.

Eventually, Derek's patience wanes. "Did Boyd invite you guys?"

Stiles nods, but he is apparently back to avoiding Derek's eyes. "Uh, yeah. He told us last week about this fundraiser and asked if we wanted to come."

They lapse into silence again, but it's not the kind that Derek finds comfortable. A waiter passes by them, carrying a tray of champagne glasses, and Stiles nearly trips over himself when he snatches a hand out for one, stumbling over an apology mixed with a thanks. Derek watches him pour nearly _half the glass_ into his mouth.

"How did step twenty-two go?" he asks.

Stiles swallows his mouthful of champagne with a wildly-contorted expression, coughing a little before he can answer. "You heard about that, huh?" he hisses through his lingering disgust. He looks down at his suit jacket and pulls at the bottom of it, as if looking for something to do. "Uh, yeah, yeah. It's fine. It went fine. Aiden won, but it was a fluke. I'll get a rematch at some point and make things right."

Derek bites back a smirk and watches Stiles' lip curl as he looks at his glass. "You wanna try this?" Derek offers, extending his whiskey glass towards the barista.

Stiles glances at him quickly before refocusing on the tumbler. His eyebrows pull inwards with concentration, his jaw sliding to the side as his lips pout. Then he tilts his head concedingly. "Sure, why not?" he mutters, reaching out to take the glass. His fingers don't brush Derek's, nor does he let the glass linger in both of their hands. He lifts it swiftly to his mouth, nose wrinkling at the smell, and takes a tiny sip.

Almost _immediately_ , his eyes widen and his eyebrows twist in horror, shoving the tumbler back at Derek while his mouth curls in disgust. He grunts as he swallows and then makes noises of repulsion as he shakes his head, scraping his teeth along his tongue. Derek can't do anything to curb the grin stretching into his cheeks, so he takes a sip of the whiskey himself and swallows it with _much_ more grace.

"Don't _ever_ let me do that again," Stiles demands, tossing back another mouthful of champagne to wash the taste of whiskey out of his mouth.

Derek averts his gaze for a moment, trying not to frown at Stiles' words - because they imply that Derek is going to be a part of Stiles' life for "ever"; but there's also a very high chance that Derek is just overthinking a throwaway comment.

"Do they do cocktails here?"

Derek glances at Stiles, who is gazing over at the bar. "I think they have a limited menu. Would you like one?"

"I'd kill for a margarita," Stiles admits a little sheepishly.

Derek smiles and gestures his head. "C'mon."

The rest of the _Deaton's_ crew are nowhere to be seen when they make it to the bar, leaning an elbow each on the surface. It's not too busy, but there are enough people that Derek and Stiles' shoulders are pressed against each other. Stiles deems it acceptable to make eye-contact with Derek after he orders them both a margarita, giving Derek an expression full of surprise.

"What?" Derek grunts, quirking an eyebrow.

"I wouldn't have pegged you for the type to enjoy a cocktail."

"I'm not a _type_ ," Derek retorts. "I just enjoy what I enjoy."

Stiles ducks his head, nodding. Derek swears it looks like he's biting back a smile.

"Hey, Derek!" a voice calls out.

Derek's head swivels on his neck to spot Laura strutting towards him in her wedges. She's wearing a simple, emerald blouse and dress pants, her hair braided elegantly over her shoulder and her eye-make-up styled nicely.

"Did you and Peter dress to match?" he asks, smirking, when she comes to a halt behind the customer at the bar next to him. He saw her already at the start of the evening, but not since he saw what Peter is wearing.

She rolls her eyes. "I almost went home to change when I saw him."

The bartender starts to shake their cocktails, drawing Derek's eyes for a moment. He sees Stiles looking between him and Laura, and suddenly feels nervous.

"Are you having a cocktail?" Laura asks.

Derek clears his throat and places his hands on the edge of the bar, pushing himself away so that Laura can see past him to Stiles. "Stiles wanted one and I thought I'd join him," he answers, praying his nerves haven't seeped into his tone. "Uh, Stiles, this is Laura, my sister," he introduces, gesturing between them. "Laura, this is Stiles-" and his mind short-circuits for a hot second, glancing at Stiles' expression, which definitely doesn't help because the barista _also_ looks a little nervous. "He's a friend," Derek settles on finally. "Boyd and I go to the coffee shop he works at for lunch."

Laura smiles amiably and reaches past Derek to shake Stiles' hand. "I didn't know 'friend' was still in his vocabulary," she teases. "You'll have to tell me how you guys managed to convince him to reinstate the position."

"I'm pretty sure we forced his hand."

Laura laughs. "Equally impressive." She turns her attention back to Derek, then, ignoring his glare. "Listen, I wanted to give you a heads up: Satomi's looking for you."

Derek frowns. "Why?"

"I don't know. Maybe she wants you to do a speech," she grins, patting his cheek when he gives her the most unimpressed face he can muster. "I'll catch you later, alright? I need to go mingle some more. It was nice meeting you, Stiles!"

"Oh, uh, yeah. Sure. You too," Stiles responds quickly.

Derek is thankful that their drinks are slid across the bar to them, at this point, awkwardness threatening to melt him into a puddle at Stiles' feet. He hands a couple notes over to the bartender and picks up his glass, sliding the other over to Stiles, before turning and stepping away from the bar. Stiles follows after him, taking a delicate sip from the glass in his hand.

"So, uh, what d'you wanna do?" Derek asks, slipping his free hand back into his pocket. "I don't know where everyone else is."

Stiles avoids his eyes again. "Uh, I guess I should probably look at the art, huh? Since that's the whole - y'know - the whole _thing_."

Derek nods, trailing after Stiles when the barista walks to the nearest canvas. Stiles is _still_ being weird with eye-contact and conversation, but he's not doing everything he can to escape this awkward interaction, so Derek really has _no idea_ whether the barista actually wants to be anywhere near him or not.

They silently look at three canvases before Derek takes a deep breath and steps closer to Stiles so he can speak quietly and not be overheard (and his heart may or may not be battering against his chest). "Listen, Stiles, I know I told Laura you were my friend, but I just wasn't sure what to say, because I don't know if you actually _are_ or not, if you _wanna_ be friends at all. I kind of thought we were, at a point, but then something changed and you just- you don't seem comfortable around me. I don't know if I _did_ something-"

"Oh my god, dude, no," Stiles splutters quickly, spinning to stare at Derek with wide eyes. "No, you didn't do anything. I'm sorry I made you think that, man."

Derek frowns at him gently, struggling to make sense of the situation with that new information. "Okay."

"Yeah, man. I'm sorry. I didn't think you'd worry you'd done something. I guess I didn't really _think_ , like, at all. Sorry, dude."

Derek takes another breath, his head tilting curiously. "Do you know my name?"

Stiles gapes at him. " _What_? Of course I know your name. How could I not know your name?"

Derek nods, glancing around them to make sure no one can hear them still. "Did you know that the first and last time you ever said my name in front of me was when I came into _Deaton's_ for the first time and you and Scott were giving those actors a speech?"

Stiles' gaze goes distant for a moment, a fond smile curling at his mouth. Then he blinks and his smile drops, and he looks almost _panicked_. "Uh, yeah- I mean, no. Uh," he huffs out, shifting nervously. He takes a drink from his cocktail and winces. "You noticed that?"

"Did I notice that you only ever call me 'dude' or 'man'? Yes, Stiles."

Stiles groans and rubs a hand down his face. "Listen, man," he sighs, his hand dropping to slap against his leg. His eyes can't seem to decide between Derek's eyes or his chest, darting up and down erratically. And then words just start tumbling out of his mouth. "Alright, look, it's _so much easier_ to interact with a walking, talking embodiment of human perfection when he doesn't have a name and hates your guts, okay? I mean, you're intimidating enough as it is, never mind if I humanised you by referring to you by your actual name. At least when you were just some _nameless_ entity that stormed in and hated me for a little bit and then stormed off again, I knew how to react, right? I just had to snark right back and everyone's happy. When you said you didn't hate me, I just- I mean- how's a scrawny kid like me supposed to be _friends_ with someone like you? And don't even get me started on being- y'know- I just don't think you realise what a freakin' _hardship_ it is to look like this, dude. People like me aren't supposed to interact with people like you in any way other than antagonisation. It upsets the natural order of the world. So, yeah, I objectified you, and that was really shitty of me, but I literally have no idea how to behave around an actual human being that looks like this and considers me their _friend_ \- as in, at least _somewhat_ enjoys spending time with me. Do you have any idea how ridiculous that is?"

Derek blinks, watching Stiles blankly as the barista seems to suck in air a little more enthusiastically than usual. His lips are pursed together now as if to prevent any more words from spilling out and falling to the ground at Derek's feet, one hand clutching his cocktail glass, the other balanced on his hip. Derek's pretty sure his brain is just white noise right now, but he knows he can't leave Stiles in silence after… after _that_.

"Do you have any idea how ridiculous _you_ are?" Derek finally forces out. "You realise all of your friends are attractive men and women?"

"Well, yeah, of course, but not as- I mean, you're, like- you're just- you're on a different level, here, dude," Stiles retorts, gesturing vaguely at Derek's body. "You've got that whole tall, dark, and handsome thing going on, and the angsty, mysterious, bad-boy thing going on, too."

"I'm pretty sure Boyd gives off the same vibes."

" _Yeah_ , but- dude, you're- ugh," Stiles groans, throwing his head back. "I feel like you're just fishing for compliments, now."

Derek laughs quietly. "I'm just trying to understand why I've been wondering what the hell I did wrong for the past few weeks."

Stiles winces. "I really am sorry, man. I didn't think you'd notice or be bothered, like, _at all_. I promise I'll stop objectifying you."

Derek smiles. "I appreciate that."

"If I start acting like an idiot, though, that's on you. I tried to save you from that experience, but you've brought it on yourself."

"Stiles, you're always an idiot."

"Well, I'll be an even bigger one, now," he huffs.

Derek takes another sip of his cocktail, smiling into his glass. He admires the canvas they're stood in front of for another moment, and then realises he should maybe repay Stiles, considering the guy had word-vomited a bunch of compliments at Derek. "Y'know, your overabundance of personality could be considered intimidating," he comments.

"I don't know whether to take that as a compliment or an insult," Stiles responds, tossing Derek a pair of narrowed, golden-brown eyes. Derek chooses not to answer. "Wait, are you saying _you're_ intimidated by _me_?"

"It sounds ridiculous when you say it like that."

"Then how would _you_ say it?"

"You've got a big personality. I don't have much of one," Derek shrugs.

"What? Dude, of course you do."

"Hating everyone and everything?" he smirks, a bitter twist to his lips.

"No, man," Stiles frowns. "You're pretty protective. And caring. And you can be pretty selfless, too. And supportive, actually. And, you know what? That whole _hating_ thing, I think you're just particular about where you spend your energy. I think you're comfortable in your own skin and with your own company, and you're just careful with who you let in because you don't like to waste your own time. It's pretty valid, to be honest. You're obviously good at figuring out who _is_ worth your time, considering you talk to _us_ , and that sounds really nice, man. I _wish_ I could figure out who was gonna waste my time before I did a deep-dive on their backstory and spent hours finding things we had in common so we'd definitely have something to talk about."

Derek blinks at him for a moment, stunned (again). Then he clears his throat. "Did you do that to me?"

"Uh, no, I did not. I _am_ good at realising whose time would be wasted by _me_ if I tried to strike up a friendship or anything else, so."

"I don't think you've wasted my time," Derek blurts, but he realises it's true.

"You sure about that, dude?" Stiles scoffs.

"Yeah. I, uh, I think it was all worth it."

Stiles turns and _stares_ at him. Derek's hand clenches into a fist in his pocket to stop it from reaching out.

"There you are, Derek."

Derek nearly flinches at the new voice. He turns and finds Satomi approaching them, smiling between them both. "Satomi," Derek smiles back. "How's your night going?"

"I would have normally said better than yours, but it seems you've finally found yourself some good company to keep you smiling at this event," she replies knowingly.

Derek feels embarrassment crawling up his spine. He feels like a teenager again, standing in front of the woman with those wise eyes of hers glinting cheekily. "This is my friend, Stiles. Stiles, this is Satomi."

"Pleasure to meet you, Stiles. I run the orphanage," Satomi greets, shaking his hand.

The introduction feels too impersonal to Derek, all of a sudden. Inadequate. "Satomi took my sisters and I in after the fire, while my uncle was in the coma. She looked after us."

Stiles gives her a soft, genuine smile. "It's an honour to be here, tonight," he says earnestly. "Are any of the paintings for sale, by the way? I noticed one of the Sheriff's station and I know my dad would love to hang it up in the bullpen or his office, or something."

Satomi smiles happily. "I'm not sure about that one, we'd have to check in with Tracy and see if that's something she'd be interested in. You can come with me to chat with her. In the meantime, Derek, would you mind speaking to Alec? He's over there by the pillar."

Derek nods, clearing his throat. "Yeah, of course. What's wrong?"

"I just think he could do with talking to someone who understands what he's going through. I think you're possibly quite similar."

Derek nods again, sends Stiles a slightly awkward smile, and then makes his way over to the teenager Satomi pointed out. The kid is stood with his arms folded across his chest, his dark-haired head bowed low to avoid eye-contact with anyone. Derek sees his fingers twitching rhythmically on his arm.

"Shouldn't you be at the buffet table?" Derek asks, curling his lips in a small, friendly attempt at a smile.

Alec glances up quickly, as if checking if Derek is actually talking to him, and his expression is hard and unyielding. "I'm not hungry."

Derek nods to himself, admitting silently that he sees why Satomi thought there were similarities between the two of them. "Which piece is yours?"

Alec throws him a glare. "Why are you talking to me? Who are you?"

The kid is _definitely_ similar to how Derek was at that age. "My name's Derek," he answers, holding his hand out to shake.

Alec considers him for a moment, all wary-eyes and stiff posture. But he finally concedes and gives Derek's hand a quick, firm shake. "Alec."

Derek nods and smiles. "Nice to meet you, Alec." He takes a sip of his cocktail, wondering if the drink is damaging his reputation at all, and glances around the hall at the artwork. "I always felt uncomfortable at these fundraisers. I never made any of the art, so I didn't see why I had to be here."

Alec's head swivels to stare at him, but he pretends not to notice. "You grew up at the orphanage, too?" he asks quietly.

Derek nods and looks down at him. "For a couple years, yeah. Until my uncle could take us in."

"You never made any art?"

Derek takes a breath and glances around the hall again. "I had no idea what to make," he admits. "And I'm terrible at it, anyway."

Alec's mouth twitches with amusement. "Everybody hates being on my team when we play Pictionary 'cause they have no idea what I'm drawing."

Derek grins. "Yeah, I kicked over a few easels in my time."

Alec snickers quietly, hiding his face for a moment. He shifts on his feet a little uneasily before he looks across at a canvas hanging on the wall nearby. "Satomi says I don't have to make art," he mutters.

"You don't," Derek agrees.

"But then I'm just the weird kid that doesn't do anything," he says bitterly. "What did you do?"

"I read books."

Alec is silent for a moment, then he looks up sharply. "Are you the guy that owns the bookstore? The one that Brett and Lori borrow books from every fortnight?"

Derek nods. "You read?"

"Some of them, yeah. Most of them don't really interest me, though."

"You're welcome to swing by any time and see if there's anything that'd better suit you," Derek says.

Alec blinks up at him. "Really?"

"Yeah, of course. Even if reading isn't your thing, at least you can say you tried it."

Alec deflates a little. "What if it isn't my thing?"

Derek smiles. "Then you get to try another new thing. We'll figure out what makes you tick, don't worry."

"What if it takes a really long time?"

Derek's ears catch the sound of laughter and looks over his shoulder to where Scott, Isaac, Malia, and Liam are all overloading their paper plates with buffet food. Boyd is nearby, Erica leaning an arm on his shoulder, and they're both grinning widely. Derek feels his face soften a little and turns back to Alec.

"Take it from me, kid. Everyone's life moves at their own pace. Sometimes you can spend years thinking you had everything you wanted, only for something to change and you realise you were missing out on things you didn't even realise were possible for you. People's tastes and ambitions evolve throughout their entire lives. You're never tied down to one thing, and you shouldn't try to be. You just gotta try different things and see what you like, even if it means doing something scary that you never thought you'd do."

Alec is looking up at him with a more relaxed expression, but there's still tension around his eyes and in his mouth.

"But only if you think you're ready," Derek adds. "Sometimes you're ready and you don't even know it. But if you've got even one person you let in, one person you let _know_ you, then you'll be fine. 'Cause sometimes one person is all it takes to encourage you to try new things, and those new things could change your life."

Alec blinks up at him for another moment, and Derek suddenly feels self-conscious under the intense gaze.

"Alec, if you want any food, you better go to the table now - I'm pretty sure Nolan just picked up the entire platter of chicken wings and walked off with it," Brett comments as he walks past, throwing a friendly grin to Derek.

Alec looks a little uncertain for a moment, so Derek smiles and gestures his head. "He's not kidding. That food disappears faster than lightning once the kids decide the adults are done with it."

Alec grins and hurries off, Derek twisting on his feet to watch him go. He feels his smile slip off his face, remembering what he was like at Alec's age at these events, and wishes he'd been more open to trying new things back then. Maybe he'd have realised sooner that having friends wasn't such a bad thing.

His eyes catch Stiles' across the hall, and he blinks stupidly. Stiles is staring at him as if not even listening to the conversation Satomi and a teenager are having at his side. Derek's never seen the barista's expression so _soft_ , and he finds himself trapped in the gaze, his heartbeat thumping noisily in his ears. He supposes if he'd realised sooner that he was capable of having friends, maybe he would have hired someone else sooner than Boyd and never met him, which in turn would've meant he might never have met Stiles and the others, either. He thinks it's probably lucky, then, that his life moved at the pace it did, and there's no point wasting time wondering _what if_ , because surely he'd never have found anything as stunning as the amber eyes gazing back at him.

Satomi catches Stiles' attention and the barista breaks the eye-contact, allowing Derek free movement again. He shakes the trance off and takes another drink of his cocktail, wondering if Stiles is enjoying his as much as Derek is. He lets his gaze sweep over the walls around him until it lands on a familiar section, and the ache inside him pulses.

He never really pays attention to any of the other canvases in this section. His eyes are always drawn immediately to the one with the large house, his amazement never lessening over the years at the _detail_ in every brick and every chip in the wood. The house is three stories tall, grand but homely, with big windows and a porch with four pillars, and a railing at the top to make a balcony. The trees around the house are tall and covered in leaves, reaching out to the structure as if to shelter it. He always looks at the colours of the curtains in the windows, spots the football in the corner by the porch, tries to peer into the top-left window as if it'll actually show him the room beyond this time, and it always makes him _hurt_ with a bittersweet longing.

Every brushstroke is ingrained in his memory. More-so than the sight of the house itself, which always makes him feel guilty. He can still remember the way the rooms were laid out, though, and if he closes his eyes and concentrates, he can recall the smell of the smoke from the chimney, the sounds of laughter and shouting, the creak in the wood when he ran up the stairs. He can remember helping his dad in the kitchen, or being scolded by his mom _and_ Laura for playing too rough with the younger kids. He can remember sitting Cora on the banister, his hands hovering around her, and letting her slide down to the bottom step while she cackled delightedly. The painting shows the house bathed in a warm, golden light, and he can remember how that felt, too, when it came in through the windows - he remembers being laid out on the sofa with his mom at the other side, both of them buried in their books with warmth of the sun draping over them like a blanket.

"It's beautiful," a voice says quietly.

Derek blinks and looks left, finding Stiles at his side. The barista is staring at the painting, one hand in his pocket while the other holds his cocktail glass, and his expression seems melancholy. Derek never thought that anyone else could feel the sorrow in the warmth of the painting, except for him and his remaining family, but Stiles seems to sense it.

"It's not mine," Derek answers, his voice soft. "I never drew anything. Laura painted this our second year at the orphanage."

"You can tell she put a lot into it."

Derek looks back to the painting, his thoughts turning slowly in his head. "I think most people just see a big house in the woods."

Stiles clears his throat gently, lifting his hand from his pocket to scratch the wrist of the hand holding his glass. "There's more to it than that. A lot more," he murmurs. His hand lowers back to his side, but he doesn't slip it into his pocket again. Derek is hyper-aware of his own hand hanging an inch away. "It looks like a beautiful home."

Derek frowns faintly. "It was," he breathes, the ache inside him pulsing again.

Stiles shifts on his feet almost imperceptibly, but Derek can do nothing but focus all of his attention on the action, because it brings Stiles' shoulder to skim against Derek's, and he feels a brush of skin as the back of Stiles' hand whispers against his own. Something _warm_ spreads from his left arm across his entire body, and the ache inside him goes a little fuzzy.

"What did you do instead of drawing?" Stiles murmurs.

Derek shrugs his left shoulder (and maybe he chooses that one just to _feel_ Stiles' next to it). "I read books," he replies quietly. "They let me be anyone I wanted to be - even a kid who hadn't lost his family."

Stiles' head tilts towards him a little. "At least your coping method was productive. I did a lotta research on a whole bunch of subjects that have yet to be of any relevance to anything in my life."

Derek exhales a laugh through his nose, his lips quirking into an amused smile. When he turns to look at Stiles, he sees a similar expression on his face, but he also looks a little _relieved_ , as if glad he's stopped the frown on Derek's face. Derek doesn't really know what to do with that (even if his body is screaming out to _touch_ and _hold_ and _kiss_ ), but Stiles doesn't seem to mind his amused stare, so he figures it's safe to maintain that. His finger may or may not twitch closer to Stiles' hand and elicit another surge of warmth up his arm when their knuckles brush, but Derek doesn't know how to _thank_ Stiles any other way.

Eventually, they make their way back over to the _Deaton's_ group, snatching up what little remains of the buffet food, and Derek finds himself surrounded by people that all actually seem to be his _friends_ for the rest of the night - and, for the first time, he is among one of the last groups to leave the hall as the event draws to an end.

**BONUS CONTENT**

Laura cocks her head and watches her brother closely when he realises his friend has joined him. They exchange quiet words and small glances, and then Stiles moves closer, offering some small, physical comfort, and Laura's eyes nearly well up.

"Isn't _that_ an interesting development," Peter's voice murmurs over her shoulder.

Laura rolls her eyes, ready to discourage whatever nefarious prank Peter's got ruminating in his head; but she turns to look over her shoulder at him, and his mouth is twisted in a wry smirk, but his eyes are uncharacteristically _soft_.

"I don't think I've ever seen him entertain a conversation in front of it before," she replies quietly, as if Derek will be able to hear them from across the hall.

"Good lord, is he _smiling_ , now? Are we sure this is _our_ Derek and not some happy-go-lucky imposter?"

Laura grins when she turns back to Derek and Stiles, confirming that her brother is, in fact, _smiling_ in front of her painting of their family home. She almost doesn't want to _breathe_ for fear of disturbing the moment. "I wanna take a picture to show Cora, but it feels like I'd be interrupting an intimate moment," she murmurs.

"Well, lucky for you, I have absolutely no qualms about intruding on anyone's privacy," Peter smirks, reaching into his pocket for his phone. "Besides, they're at an event that is open to the public. If they wanted a private moment, Derek has a perfectly-decent bedroom to take him back to."

Laura snorts quietly, lifting a hand to hide her grin behind. "I think it's a little more earnest than that."

"Are you trying to say there's something _frivolous_ about a night of-"

"You don't need to finish that sentence, Peter. Ever."

Peter grins wickedly at her. "I'm just trying to be the cool uncle." He takes the picture of the two young men smiling softly at each other and shows it to Laura. "They'll thank me on their wedding day when this comes up on the slideshow."

Laura rolls his eyes at his theatrics, but part of her _does_ wonder whether Derek has finally found someone to open himself up to. She looks at the way his finger brushes against Stiles', her brother having clearly initiated the contact, and acknowledges the sheer _significance_ of something so tiny and subtle.

Across the hall, Scott sees a soft, genuine smile on his best friend's face and watches him quietly, unwilling to spoil the moment by pointing it out to someone else and turning it into gossip. His chest warms and he breathes a quiet sigh of relief, and he wonders what words he can best use to describe the moment to Noah later. Boyd, a couple of feet away, has also noticed the look on Derek's face. He allows a small twitch of his own lips, relieved that the night has gone even better than he had planned. It feels like a turning point, like Boyd won't need to interfere as much anymore, like he's done what he set out to do when he first decided to experiment with not doing the lunch-run and letting the baristas he now considers friends force themselves into Derek's life, too.

Over the heads of their friends, Boyd and Scott make eye-contact, and they share a small, knowing, secretive smile.


	11. Step Twenty-Four: X is for Xtreme Makeover, Dream Beans Edition

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The _Deaton's_ and _Books_ gang are at the bar.
> 
> Lydia makes some interesting suggestions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay again, work's been really busy and I've been struggling to find any energy by the time I get home to keep writing. This chapter is a bit more dialogue-heavy, and in a group setting as well which I always find a bit difficult (especially with this bunch of characters because you know in real life they'd all be chattering over the top of each other), but I hope you enjoy it x

Derek slips through the groups of people between him and the bar, gritting his teeth frustratedly when a few of them don't notice him trying to get by or stumble backwards into him. He hates drunk people. They're loud and obnoxious, they have _zero_ regard for personal space, they're ridiculously uncoordinated, and they somehow manage to _spray_ an ocean's-worth of spit all over their audience instead of speaking like normal, well-mannered people. They're like children, but much, _much_ worse. He doesn't know _why the hell_ he agreed to come to this place.

And, yet, here he is, running a finger over the surface of the bar to make sure it isn't sticky before he leans his elbow on it, the crumpled notes of the kitty in one hand, and the crumpled list of orders in the other. The bartender serves a couple of patrons who had been waiting before Derek and then takes the proffered list of orders from his hand, nodding to himself as he turns to make a start on them. He lays out a tray on the bar in front of Derek and begins loading it with drinks.

"That's a lot of drinks for one guy - even one as big as you," a voice comments from Derek's side.

His neck twists to look over his shoulder at the woman next to him, her smile an appealing mix of nerves and confidence. She must be around the same age as him, with long hair and bright eyes that light up when she smiles. It's not the best pick-up line he's ever heard, but it's certainly the first one in a while, and he can see the slight wince in the twitch of her eye when she realises she probably could've done better.

"It's not as heavy as it looks," he smiles back politely (what? He didn't say that _he_ was any smoother than her).

Her smile brightens and she holds eye-contact with him. "You don't need a hand?"

He lets out a small, sharp exhale that could be passed-off as a laugh, and glances at the bartender to check his progress. He's aware that, probably, at this stage in the dance, he should stop leaning on the bar the way he is, because his shoulder and arm are creating an effective barrier between him and the attractive woman trying to initiate a conversation with him; but he doesn't adjust his position.

"Not to be _that_ guy, but, uh, I'm pretty sure I've got it," he smiles, quirking an eyebrow towards his bicep between them. "Thanks, though."

Her expression fades from a toothy grin to a friendly, if a little disappointed, smile. "Well, you can let me know if you change your mind. I'm Jennifer," she says.

He hadn't even been actively trying to reject her, but he must be giving off enough vibes to give her the impression that he's not interested. The bartender calls out the price of the round and Derek hands over some of the notes from the kitty, catching Jennifer still glancing at him. His mouth opens to reply, to give her his own name, but a sudden, rushed monologue erupts from his other side.

"Howdy, slowpoke, what's takin' so long? Oh, hi, sorry. I didn't even _see you_ , there. I'm Stiles. We'd both love to stay and chat but unfortunately we have a gaggle of aggressive alcoholics that'll riot if we don't deliver their fix. So, we'll reconvene later? If at all? Okay, perfect, bye!"

He grabs the change from the bartender before Derek can and shoves it into Derek's outstretched hand, then grabs the tray of drinks and slides it off the bar towards himself, giving Derek an impatient look.

But Derek _knows_ that Stiles' behaviour was unnecessarily impolite, so he turns back to apologise to Jennifer; but the woman is _grinning_ at him, her eyebrows lifted high on her forehead, and she bites down on her lip to try and curb her amusement when they make eye-contact. All Derek can do is give her a small grin in reply, shrugging his shoulders, and say a quick "Sorry," before he gives Stiles his attention again - because he knows that _this_ is _exactly why_ he agreed to come to the bar tonight.

As soon as Derek's back is to Jennifer (and Stiles not-so-subtly glances round his arm to check that her attention is now elsewhere), Stiles huffs and shoves the drinks tray back to Derek. "And this is for you," he proclaims humbly, his facial expression relaxing after the weight is taken out of his hands. He then retrieves the list of orders from the bartender and directs Derek to walk in front of him, a hand planted in the middle of Derek's back as if he expects him to suddenly drop the tray and run back to Jennifer.

But his fingers are long and firm on Derek's spine, and there's a pleasant heat in his skin under their touch, so he lets Stiles direct him back through the bar (and it _kind-of-almost_ feels like Stiles was maybe _jealous_ that Jennifer was clearly trying to flirt with Derek, and it's making his neck hairs stand on end).

Their booth is near the back corner, and it is definitely too small for them all, squished in against each other; but everyone's laughing and chatting and they look like they couldn't care less. Erica, Boyd, and Isaac are along the back of the U-shaped booth, with Malia, Liam, and his friend Mason on one side, and Scott on the other. When they had first arrived, Stiles had fought tooth-and-nail (mostly against Liam) to sit next to Scott, and Derek had wound up on the end; but, now, when Derek slows down to give Stiles time to get ahead of him and reclaim his coveted spot, Stiles just pushes him forward again and encourages him down onto the bench next to his best friend. Derek places the tray down on the middle of the table and there's a flurry of movement as everyone claims their drinks and replaces them with their empty glasses for the bar staff to collect on their next round of the joint.

"Dude, why'd you run off?" Scott asks, leaning forward onto the table to see past Derek.

"Uh, to help _him_ , obviously," Stiles retorts with a scoff and his lopsided smile, jerking a thumb at Derek as he slips down onto the bench. Derek leans back in his seat, his right shoulder and upper arm and hip and thigh pressed into those of Stiles' left side (and maybe he can't think of much else).

"Did he need _moral support_?" Malia challenges, her eyebrow quirked incredulously.

"Where'd Lydia go?" Stiles asks Mason, ignoring her.

Mason blinks, glancing between Malia and Stiles as if thrown by the blatant change of subject. "Uh, she went to the bathroom."

"Fascinating," Malia grunts.

Derek likes Malia.

Scott nudges Derek's arm with his elbow while he lowers his beer bottle back to the table. "Hey, man, how's your uncle doing?"

Derek's confusion twists his eyebrows. "What?"

Scott falters, frowning. "How is he?" he asks, words slow and unsure. "Is he.. better?"

Derek's eyes narrow under his twisted eyebrows. "He's as intolerable as ever."

Scott blinks, face going slack. "Wait, what?"

Erica snickers.

"Scott, use your words," Stiles sighs.

"I tried to talk to him at the fundraiser," Scott explains, glancing around the table confusedly. Then he looks back at Derek and Derek nearly laughs at the puppy-like expression on his face. "He told me he had an ear infection and he couldn't hear anything. He said it was very sudden and unexpected but the doctors hoped he'd recover in a few days.. and then he walked off.." he trails off, now looking a little more like a kicked puppy than a confused one.

Boyd snorts loudly into his drink and Erica grins mockingly at his side. Isaac smirks quietly to himself while Malia scowls across the table at Scott, though her anger seems more on his behalf than directed _at_ him. Liam looks as confused as Scott.

Derek takes a breath and rolls his shoulders back, trying to not be distracted by the feeling of Stiles' arm against his. "Peter.. isn't a nice person."

Scott frowns softly. "He _lied_?"

"We're not a very sociable family."

"He seemed to get on fine with everyone else at the fundraiser," Malia retorts unhappily.

Derek almost glances at Stiles, but he looks down at his drink instead as he lifts it up towards his face, muttering, "We can be sociable when we want to be," into his glass before taking a sip.

"Don't take it personally, Scotty," Stiles says comfortingly, pressing firmer against Derek's side as he leans closer to his friend. Derek might make an irritated face at Stiles' behaviour, because it feels like he'd rather be next to Scott right now and Derek had _allowed_ for that to happen only to be manhandled down instead, but, really, Derek's not exactly going to complain or shove Stiles away, is he? "I heard once that Peter Hale eats the people he doesn't like, and you're still kickin', huh? So it's not that he _doesn't like you_ , because you'd have been chopped up into a little Scott-stew by now if that was the case."

Derek's chin tucks in as his head twists around to look at Stiles incredulously.

Stiles does a double-take, his reassuring smile slipping off his face to leave his lips parted and eyes widened slightly. "What?" he asks defensively.

Derek gives him a flat look. "My uncle is not a cannibal, Stiles."

Stiles recoils slightly, but it's Boyd that speaks up. "Do you see him often enough to justify that claim?"

Derek turns to look at him, an eyebrow raised, mouth opening and ready to defend his uncle - and then he asks himself _why_ he's trying to defend his uncle; he'd bet his store _and_ his apartment that Peter wouldn't just _not_ do the same for him, he'd also likely exacerbate the rumour into something even more wildly outlandish. "Good point," he allows, tipping his head in Boyd's direction.

Stiles splutters. "Oh, so it's fine if _he_ accuses your precious, psycho-cannibal of an uncle, but when _I_ do it, it's all angry-eyebrows and grunts?"

Derek glances at him and shrugs, nodding his head concedingly before he takes another drink.

"It's alright, Stiles," Erica cooes, leaning an elbow on the table and supporting her cheek on her fist. "I heard that Derek Hale rips out the throats of people he doesn't like-"

"With his teeth," Lydia interjects chirpily as she drops back into her seat at the end of the table between Stiles and Mason.

"With his teeth," Erica repeats in a reassuring tone, nodding at Lydia. "And you're still kicking, so he doesn't _not_ like you, right? In fact, _I'd_ even go as far as saying that Derek-"

Boyd clears his throat quietly at her side, and Erica falters, her lips slowly curling into a wide grin. She runs her tongue over her teeth, takes a breath, and then leans back on the bench again, throwing Boyd a mildly-irritated glance. Derek stares at Boyd, but his friend-who-is-also-an-employee avoids eye-contact with impressive aloofness.

"Why are we talking about the Derek Hale rumours, anyway?" Lydia asks, selecting her drink from the tray of otherwise-empty glasses.

"Wait, is that an actual rumour?" Derek frowns.

Stiles blinks at him, his face softening somewhat. "There were a few, but everyone knew they were stupid. Nobody worth their salt paid them any attention."

Derek feels his face soften in return. "Except for the cannibal one."

Stiles grins lopsidedly, his eyes deep and warm and _so pretty_. "Except for the cannibal one," he confirms. "But, I mean, c'mon, man. That was the only one that had any sort of believability to it."

Derek doesn't even mean it, but he ends up smiling back at Stiles. The barista's side is still pressed snugly against Derek's, and the heat of his body is enough to make Derek want to gather him up and steal him away - as _pathetic_ as that makes him sound. That's common, though, he's sure; he's read enough books to know that someone's touch can be intoxicating, can be addictive, magnetic - and, yes, he's fully aware of what such cravings indicate about him and his attraction to Stiles, but he's pretty sure it's not something he's going to be able to will away.

He knows at least - thanks to Stiles' monologue at the fundraiser - that the barista finds Derek physically attractive. He's not sure where the potential-jealousy comes into the equation, but he doesn't want to kid himself into thinking that someone as bright and fun and exciting as Stiles could appreciate anything _more_ than Derek's physical features. He hasn't got much to offer, even if Stiles had somehow decided that Derek was a bunch of nice things that he doesn't quite remember (he _does_ remember though - he can see and hear the scene vividly in his mind when Stiles told him he was _caring_ and _selfless_ and _protective_ and _supportive_ and he complimented the way Derek values his time and energy).

Derek spent his late-teens and early-20s being avoided and antagonised because of who he is, to the point that he kind-of forgot he had anything more to him than a general _I don't want anything to do with this_ about everything and everyone he came in contact with. He was just simple aggravation and disinterest, and then Boyd had initiated the downfall of Derek's entire perception of himself, and Stiles had completely shattered it with that monologue. The knowledge that he's found a group of people who can apparently _see him,_ for the things he himself had _stopped_ seeing a long time ago, settles somewhere in his chest, warm and soothing, and Derek feels a sudden surge of gratitude for the people around him, and for the loud, excitable barista with the utterly- _insane_ plan to take down a rival coffee shop, who is still staring at him with those whiskey eyes of his.

Across the table, Liam clears his throat, and the sound has Derek tearing his eyes away from Stiles', conscious that he's probably been _staring_ for a long time. But Liam's arm twitches and Derek sees Mason's torso flinch slightly, as if pulling away from an attack in his side, and Derek relaxes. Mason's eyes widen comically before he makes an attempt (not a very good one) at schooling his features.

"Hey, so, did you guys know each other before? Or, like… did you have any mutual friends, or… did you just not know each other at all?" he asks slowly, hesitantly, glancing between them all.

"We only became friends because Boyd came to _Deaton's_ for lunch every day," Scott answers, oblivious to the weird tension in the overly-nonchalant movements Mason's making. "Oh! It's funny, though, because it turns out we do have a mutual friend, but we didn't realise."

"Oh, wow, seriously? That's _super_ random," Mason chuckles awkwardly. "So, uh, what's the deal with… with that?"

"Turns out the guy who delivers Derek's books is a guy Stiles and I were close to in fourth grade," Scott grins brightly.

"Ha! What are the odds, right? So… he's, like, a delivery driver? Or whatever?"

"Yeah, he drives trucks."

Mason nods. "Cool. That's cool," he mutters. Then, "Is he hot?" And Derek catches the flinch that suggests Liam has attacked him again where the rest of them can't see - most likely a kick under the table.

"Uh, yeah, I guess you could say that. I mean, he ticks all the boxes. What do you think, Derek?"

Derek shrugs. "Yeah, he's hot."

"I mean, yeah, sure, if you're into conventional beauty standards imposed on us by a capitalist society in order to maintain an economy thriving off of insecurities and the soulless pursuit of an unattainable perfection," Stiles interjects. Erica scoffs and Malia sends him another incredulous glance.

Mason frowns at him for a moment, visibly thrown again, before he shakes his head and turns back to Scott. "Being a trucker's gotta be a little lonely, though, right? You think he's, like, forgotten how to be a functioning member of society because of all that time spent in isolation?"

"Theo's a good guy," Derek says, drawing Mason and Liam's attention. "He likes to keep things close to his chest, but there's a lotta heart underneath it when he lets it show. He's had a hard life, though, from what I can tell," he adds, and he knows the others can hear the unspoken warning in his voice: _so don't hurt him any more than he has been already_.

"Do you think he has many friends?" Liam asks quietly.

"I dunno."

"Maybe we should invite him next week," Scott says, referring to their weekly bar-visit.

Liam bites back his excitement, but he might as well be a puppy with a tail whipping back and forth for all the good it does him.

"He was game for the fundraiser," Boyd inputs.

"As long as him and Liam keep their swooning to a minimum," Derek mutters, tilting his head towards Stiles minutely (and so what if he's trying to dampen the barista's additional bout of possible-jealousy?). Stiles snickers quietly, and Derek hides a grin in his drink when he takes another sip.

"You tryin' to bone, Mason?" Isaac asks bluntly.

Mason chokes on his drink.

"What? No!" Liam yelps, eyes blown wide. Malia scowls and flinches away from him. "Mason has a boyfriend! And he's really nice!" he insists.

"Alright, Liam," Scott reassures, gently confused. "It just sounded like-"

"I was just making conversation!" Mason blurts.

Derek stops himself from pointing out the obvious fact that Mason was investigating on behalf of _Liam_ , who is the one actually interested in Theo; but Derek knows outing Liam's intentions would leave him exposed for having his own _feelings_ outed, and he doesn't really want that - especially not in this setting.

"You kids are the least-subtle creatures I have ever had the displeasure of meeting," Stiles laments.

"Stiles, honey, _you're_ not exactly a mystery - you know that, right?" Lydia retorts.

"I wear my heart on my sleeve, there's a difference," Stiles counters defensively, "It's called being romantic."

"If your idea of _romance_ is to refuse to-" Erica tries, smirking.

" _Discretion is advisable in certain situations_ , Erica!" Stiles hisses loudly across the table, giving her pointedly-wide eyes.

"And _this_ is not one of them," Lydia sing-songs quietly.

"Alright, how did this end up about me, huh? We were making fun of the puppies!"

" _Puppies_?" Liam demands, incredulous.

Once upon a time, Derek would have thrown himself out of the booth and ran home, muttering the whole way about idiots and annoyances and claiming to hate every single one of them. But, now, he just leans back and lets Stiles press into him in an attempt to get into his adversaries' grills as much as possible, and he tries not to grin at the petulant bickering.

Eventually, the group stops throwing accusations and cutting each other off at vitally-interesting points in their sentences, and they settle down to discuss other trivial matters. Then Stiles manages to reroute the conversation to his Big Plan.

"I just don't get what outcome you're expecting, at this point," Isaac persists, giving Stiles a bemused frown. "Do you seriously still think Argent's gonna _close down his business_ just because you've annoyed him enough?"

"Listen, people have done _much_ _more_ to get me to stop annoying them when I haven't even been _trying_ , so it's not as deluded as you might think," Stiles counters.

"That's true," Scott comments quietly, his expression somewhat pained as he stares into the distance at some presumably-horrific memory.

"It'd be easier to kill you than to shut down his business and leave his staff unemployed," Lydia comments.

"What? No, it wouldn't. I'm tenacious, I wouldn't go down without a fight. I'm also pretty sure I'm immortal," Stiles retorts.

"Pretty sure you're not," Derek mutters.

"Listen, they've tried to kill me twice already, right? And I'm still here."

"You mean when Jackson bumped into you and you fell, and when Derek was a human-barrier between Jackson and Ethan's punches and your face?" Erica challenges.

"If you're referring to the time when Jackson _threw_ me down to the ground and the time when he and Ethan attacked us like _savages_ and I nearly lost my life holding Ethan down, then, yeah."

"All that's telling me is that you'd be dead without Derek," Isaac shrugs.

"Uh, I think you'll find I was completely capable of handling myself, thank you very much. Even if I'd been alone, I wouldn't have died."

"No one tried to kill you, Stiles," Malia intones. "You're not worth the hassle."

"Oh my god," Stiles mutters.

"I dunno, I think I'd put in the work. Can you imagine how satisfying it'd be?" Isaac muses nonchalantly.

" _Oh my god_ ," Stiles hisses.

"He's an idiot. It'd be the easiest thing in the world," Erica chimes in.

"Oh my god!" Stiles bursts loudly, his arms flailing in his outraged-disbelief. "Can we _stop_ with the casual debate about whether I'm worth killing or not?"

"And how easy it'd be," Derek adds quietly.

" _And_ how easy it'd- wait, _what_? Do you _agree_ with her?" Stiles demands, turning his wide eyes on Derek.

Derek shrugs. "You have a certain tendency to provoke, facilitate, _and_ aggravate situations where you could get hurt."

Stiles glares at him. "So, you think I'm an idiot?"

Derek quirks an eyebrow. "I've always thought you're an idiot." And the words _my idiot_ are on the tip of Derek's tongue, but he manages to clamp his mouth shut before they slip on the alcohol in his system and fall at Stiles' hands; but he's pretty sure he has a stupidly-soft smile on his face.

"You're both idiots," Lydia mumbles.

" _I_ think that Stiles is elusive and quick," Scott speaks up, leaning forward on the table and reaching out a hand past Derek. "You're like _Sonic_ , man. Nobody can catch you."

Stiles' face crumples affectionately as he slaps his hand into Scott's and they smile goofily at each other. "Gotta go fast," Stiles sniffs. "Thanks, bro."

"I wanna take Argent down," Liam proclaims. "I don't like that Ethan dude. He broke your nose."

"Liam," Scott sighs. "I told you, he didn't break my nose. He just burst it."

"There was blood everywhere!"

"Aw, the puppy's all wound up 'cause he wants to protect his dad," Stiles cooes.

Scott retracts his hand, blinking between Stiles and Liam. "Dude, you don't need to protect me," he tells Liam earnestly.

Liam shrinks into himself a little. "I know."

"You kids are so _soft_ ," Erica groans.

"You're literally cuddling your boyfriend right now," Mason counters.

Erica flips him the finger, not even bothering to lift her head off of Boyd's shoulder. Boyd just smirks and takes another sip of his beer.

"Alright, listen, guys," Stiles says firmly, leaning his forearms on the table and pinning everyone with a sombre gaze. "We've only got three steps left to force Argent's hand, and I need help coming up with what to do. We've got X, Y, and Z left, so, who's got ideas? This isn't the time to be coy, alright? All ideas welcome. No judgement, no unnecessarily-mean criticisms. Safe space."

"God, you're so dumb," Isaac groans, slumping back in his seat.

"I said _no_ unnecessarily-mean criticisms," Stiles snaps.

"Stiles, you're never gonna convince Chris Argent to shut down his family business for no reason," Lydia rolls her eyes.

"Not with that attitude," Stiles mutters petulantly.

"Everything I've suggested has been too ' _gory_ ' or-" Malia shrugs.

"-Deeply, _deeply_ alarming, yes, I was there, I remember."

"My plans are ' _uninspired_ '," Scott mutters, pouting.

"Scotty, I've apologised, like, a gazillion times for that, man. You caught me on a bad day, okay?"

"I don't give a shit," Isaac quips.

"Well, you've been seduced by the spawn of Satan, so I guess we can't really fault you for that."

"You told me I wasn't allowed to make suggestions," Liam frowns.

"Yeah, I actually think that still stands, for the time being."

"You _could_ just stop," Derek suggests, shrugging the shoulder pressing against Stiles'.

Stiles groans loudly and drops his head into his hands, scrubbing at his hair. "I'm not just gonna _give up_ , man, that's ridiculous."

"Stiles?" Erica calls.

"Yeah?" he grunts, lifting his head until his chin is propped up in his hands.

"You only want to finish this so you can finish the alphabet, don't you?"

"Okay, first of all: how dare you?" Stiles spits out, his expression contorted with disgust. "I can't believe you'd _trivialise_ my valiant attempts to overthrow such horrific _evil_ like this. What an absolutely _absurd_ accusation. I'm truly _aghast_ that you'd betray me like this. Second of all: _how dare you_ , you bitch?"

Derek scoffs out a laugh, his neck twisting to look at Erica. "It's definitely about finishing the alphabet, at this point," he agrees, smirking.

"Stiles, it's alright to admit that you don't care about Argent closing down, now. We've had a lot of fun doing the plan," Scott assures his best friend earnestly.

"You're dead to me," Stiles says flatly.

"Alright, say you _were_ still interested in making sure _Deaton's_ comes out on top," Lydia sighs, leaning forward onto the table and catching Stiles' attention. "Maybe you should try some steps that are less _attacking_ and more _fortifying_."

"I'm listening."

"You've thrown everything you've got at _The Bunker_ , right? And the most it's got you is a dislocated shoulder and Scott's burst nose. The likelihood of you finally getting somewhere with the offensive strategy in the next three steps is slim. So, why don't you concentrate on _Deaton's_ instead. If you want it to be on top, then make it better - make it unbeatable."

"Uh, Lyds, you can't perfect something that's already perfect."

"There's _always_ something you can do when it comes to a business, Stiles. Offer a different kind of food or beverage; link up with a local bakery or deli; start a stand in the mall - something that nobody else is doing and that draws in even more customers. Start a delivery service, work something out with the local college, link up with stores like Derek's, the possibilities are-"

Stiles cuts off the rest of her explanation with an obnoxiously-loud gasp, his arms flailing in the air in circular motions. Everyone goes quiet, watching his frozen features in their shocked state. And then he breathes out, "Step Twenty Four: X is for Xtreme Makeover, _Dream Beans_ Edition." And he slowly turns to face Derek, his features still blown with shock but now brightening with pure excitement, and Derek couldn't look away even if he wanted to. His heart thumps noisily in his ears, but as soon as Stiles speaks again, every iota of Derek's attention zones in on the barista's low tone. "Oh my god, Derek. _Please_ can we do this?" Stiles begs, his eyes huge and warm and so _golden_ Derek can taste honey.

And maybe it's because of the alcohol, maybe it's because it's the first time since they met that Stiles has _said his name_ (it absolutely _is_ because of that - there's no 'maybe' about it, who is he kidding?), but Derek finds himself nodding dumbly. "Alright, Stiles."

Stiles _beams_ at him, and Derek has to fight against an almost-overwhelming _longing_ to claim the grin as his own.


	12. Step Twenty-Six: Z is for Zero Regrets

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Derek and Stiles spend a day together.
> 
> Books gets some improvements made to it.
> 
> Derek is a lil bit angsty.
> 
> Derek compliments Deaton's Dream Beans, and Stiles reacts positively.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's the final chapter! Sorry I took so long, I just really wanted to make sure I was happy with it and that it was jam-packed with Sterek moments (it's a shit-ton of words, so I'm pretty sure jam-packed is accurate). I hope everyone enjoys this chonky chapter - please let me know what you think!
> 
> This story has been a real escape for me over the last few months, and definitely a lighthearted relief that I was really needing, so thanks to anyone and everyone who read, left kudos, and commented, for supporting and encouraging it x I hope you guys got something positive out of this story as well!xx

Derek pulls a dark, long-sleeved Henley from his wardrobe and tugs it on, running a hand through his hair to amend the slight tousling the action caused. He has tried to really make an effort this morning - he got as decent a sleep as he could, did a quick workout, showered, ate a healthy breakfast, had a coffee (even though _his_ coffee never really hits the spot anymore), and watered his plants. He even washed the dishes he used to make his breakfast, and he made his bed and opened up all of his blinds to let some sunlight into his apartment. Point is: he has started his morning as productive and maximum-effort as he possibly can, and he's really hoping he can keep that energy going all day.

The majority of his days off are spent in his favourite armchair next to the big window in his living room, with the blinds half-rolled and most of the light in the space coming from the various floor lamps, ignoring any knocks on his door from salesmen or Girl Scouts selling cookies. But, today, it's going to be a little different. Willingly, though. _Purposefully_. Today, he's going furniture shopping for the reading space he planned up months ago. Things are moving swiftly in _Books_ and he needs to buy in the furniture to decorate before the nook ends up an empty space of wooden floors and glass walls with nowhere to actually sit and read.

He decides against a jacket since there will, with any luck, be a lot of heavy lifting going on today to keep him warm, but he snatches up his wallet, phone, and the keys Theo has leant him. The delivery driver had dropped his Toyota Tundra off last night for Derek to use to transport the furniture back to the store, since his Camaro wouldn't exactly fit anything worthwhile in the back. Derek had offered to drive Theo back home since he was refusing any kind of repayment for loaning the truck in the first place, but Theo had dismissed him with a suspicious kind of nonchalance - and Derek had clocked the shirt and dress shoes, the lingering scent of cologne after Theo left, the nervous fidgeting before he said goodbye, and he has a feeling that Liam had something (everything) to do with it.

Theo's truck is bigger than Derek's Camaro, but he's a confident driver and he's hoping the stores he's selected won't have busy parking lots early on a Tuesday - it's not _Books_ ' official day off, but he figured it'd be a better experience shopping on a weekday than a Sunday, so he left Boyd in charge.

He has just twisted the key in the ignition, bringing the truck rumbling to life, when his phone buzzes in the passenger seat. He gives it a quick glance in case it's Boyd, and sees a random mobile number with a chunky preview of a text under it.

Curiosity wins out. Derek snatches his phone up to open the text.

" _Yo dude my jeep is temporarily wounded but i was getting groceries and now i'm sitting in the parking lot surrounded by bags and there's ice cream in one of the bags dude and it's so freakin hot and i don't have enough arms to get the bags from the parking lot to my house and it'd be like a half-hour walk and everyone i know is either ignoring me or working and the tow truck driver just laughed at me when i asked if he could drop me off at my house so he needs to watch his back but also i literally have no way to get all this shit home unless i call a cab but my dad confiscated my card and he only left me enough money for the groceries so i'd have no way to pay for the cab so i'm seriously up shit creek here man_ ".

Even the voice in Derek's head loses breath reading the text. He stares down at it, reading through it a second time as he huffs out a sigh. Then a second text comes through, and he bites down on a smirk.

" _Help me obi-wan kenobi, you're my only hope_ ".

Derek's fingers tap out a reply: " _Which parking lot, Stiles?_ "

He hasn't even plugged his seatbelt in before an answer pops up on his screen, followed quickly by ":D!!!".

When Derek pulls into the parking lot, he spots Stiles instantly. The barista is stood in a parking space, agitatedly directing a minivan away from his spot to one further up the row, the open sides of his chequered shirt billowing with his emphatic movements. He has one hand tucked behind his back though, and Derek spots a bag of groceries swinging back and forth in its grip, peeking out behind his legs. When Stiles waves a hand dismissively at the honking minivan and turns away, he brings the bag round to his front. Derek realises he's keeping it out of direct sunlight - it must be the bag with the ice cream.

"Alright, _you know what_?" the barista demands loudly when Derek pulls up next to the parking spot. "I understand this is a pretty ideal spot for leaving your car, alright? I get it. But I've had a _long_ freakin' day and I do _not_ have the patience to explain to you-"

"It's barely 11am, Stiles," Derek calls out the window, leaning his elbow up on the door.

Stiles' jaw goes slack, his wide, golden-brown eyes snapping to Derek's face. "Uh, this isn't your car," he says, a frown scrunching his features as his head tilts. His mouth remains agape, but his lip curls with confusion. And then he lifts his free hand and gestures vaguely. "This.. I dunno about this," he muses to himself, his hand moving in a slow circle at the cab of Theo's truck, fingers long and crooked. "I don't like this. I don't think I like this." Then his head tilts to the other side, his eyes glancing over Derek's face, and his eyebrows lift curiously. "Actually, maybe I do like it. Do I like it? I think-"

"I thought you were worried about melting ice cream."

Stiles sucks his lips into his mouth, eyebrows shooting high on his forehead, eyes widening again. He makes a loud noise of agreement, humming past his captured lips, and ungracefully hurries to open the door behind Derek's. Derek stabs at the button to turn the truck's hazards on and takes a breath, preparing himself to be cooped up in such a small space with Stiles, alone. His chest hums with nervous anticipation and he glances in his mirrors to check for inconvenienced drivers to distract himself.

In typical Stiles fashion, the barista rips open the passenger door and hauls himself up into the seat, muttering to himself about "inconsiderate _jerks_ in their _jerk_ minivans" and "freakin' soccer moms" and being "stranded in an _ocean_ of grocery bags", and the not-so-calm silence Derek had been enjoying is completely shattered.

He bites back a smirk and turns off the Tundra's hazard lights, checking the mirrors again before gently accelerating. "Seatbelt."

Stiles huffs petulantly but drags the belt across his chest. "How long are you gonna hold this over my head, then, huh?"

Derek stops at the exit of the parking lot, glancing at his passenger. "For as long as you need humbling. Which way?"

"Oh, right. Yeah. Uh, go left."

The sunlight spilling in through the windshield is bright and golden, and Derek can feel it stretching across his chest and shoulders, seeping warmth into his shirt and skin. It would be the perfect day to go hiking in the preserve, or to take a road trip somewhere - which isn't a craving that strikes Derek often, but it's also not often that he's sharing a car with someone he enjoys the company of so much that he wishes they weren't just doing something as trivial as giving the other a ride home. But he has _things_ to do today, and Stiles himself has expressed his definite lack of interest in leaving Beacon Hills, so it's not like he's going anywhere anytime soon. Maybe Derek can _get to that point_ with him, though, where he can text Stiles (because he has his number now) and propose a hike or a road trip - or, more likely, get swept up in something completely outlandish that Stiles has concocted and pretend to be completely unhappy about the situation.

"Take the next right," Stiles instructs, pointing at the junction ahead of them.

"Why did your dad confiscate your card, anyway?" Derek asks, following the direction.

"Uh, he got bored of delivery drivers knockin' on the door."

Derek throws him a bemused frown. "That's it?"

Stiles crosses his arms over his chest and slouches in the passenger seat. "There were multiple a day."

"For how many days?"

Stiles turns to look out the window, avoiding Derek's questioning gaze. "Eight."

Derek quirks an eyebrow. "I don't know if I should even ask what you were ordering."

"You know when you go on a trip to another state and you eat something you always eat back home, and it tastes completely different?" Stiles asks, the question bursting out of him as if suddenly desperate now to make Derek understand. Derek doesn't get a chance to give Stiles more than a frown. "I swear to god, dude, it's a thing. Alright? It's a _thing_. And one night I just- I dunno. I couldn't take the _wondering_ anymore, y'know? I had to get answers. I couldn't _sleep_ , man."

"You ordered something from every state?"

"He stopped me at twenty-three," Stiles mutters dejectedly, flicking his hand. "So, now I have to somehow come up with a result to this experiment with less-than-half the needed test subjects - go straight ahead at this intersection. I've got twenty-three boxes of Cinnamon Toast Crunch in my bedroom and I have to use _them_ to come to a conclusion about the variation of flavour across _fifty_ states - I mean, it's gonna have to be an _estimation_ , can you believe that? All that work and I have to settle for a freakin' _hypothesis_. I wanted a solid answer, an unquestionable result. But _no_ -"

"Cinnamon Toast Crunch," Derek repeats, his voice flat. "You ordered twenty-three boxes of _cereal_ , Stiles?"

"Uh, it wasn't as simple as that, _Derek_ ," Stiles retorts defensively. His pale features are scrunched with offended indignation, and Derek would laugh if he wasn't so incredulous. "Take this left. No, it wasn't as simple as _ordering twenty-three boxes of cereal_. You can't order something like that online and specify which state you want it to come from. I had to hire people to _buy_ the box in each state and drive it here, or mail it to me."

"That's insane," Derek frowns.

"Insane like ' _oh wow, dude, that's crazy_ '?"

Derek gives him a flat stare.

Stiles huffs and rolls his eyes. "Go straight ahead again."

"No wonder your dad took your card."

Stiles' voice lowers into a mutter that sounds distinctly.. _unhappy_. "It's not my fault I fixate on stupid shit until my body feels like it'll literally _implode_ if I don't do something about it."

Derek sighs quietly, glancing out the window at his side as he struggles to think of something to say. "So, what did you decide?" he asks quietly, awkward.

"What?"

"What hypothesis did you make?"

Stiles blinks at him. "Oh, uh. I dunno, it was kinda hard to settle on an answer."

Derek's eyebrows twitch upwards, prompting.

"But," Stiles concedes, and something brightens in his expression again. "Nebraska's doing something weird, man. I dunno what it is, but there's something a little _off_ about their so-called cinnamon."

Despite his lingering incredulity, Derek grins.

"I think it might have crack in it."

And _that_ manages to draw a laugh barking up Derek's throat.

Stiles regales him with all the nuances of flavouring in breakfast cereals, in the multitude of factories and each of their supply zones, peppering in some more directions to his house that Derek is loath to admit he nearly misses because he's too absorbed in Stiles' story. They eventually pull up to a humble two-story house, and Stiles orders Derek into the "Stiles spot" on the left-hand side of the driveway. He barely takes a pause in his sentence when he opens the passenger door and hops out of the truck, and he's lucky that Derek automatically copies his movements on the driver's side or he would have cut himself off when he slammed the door shut behind him - but, since Derek is a gentleman, thank you very much, and he moves to assist Stiles with the multitude of grocery bags, Stiles' story continues to have an audience who can actually _hear_ it.

Between the two of them - well, mostly thanks to Derek's penchant for the gym - they manage to carry all the bags into the house in one trip. The kitchen is a decent size, but a little narrow, so Derek places the bags on the counters as instructed and then backs away to let Stiles in to unpack them all. The barista continues to ramble as he works, leaving cupboard doors hanging open at his shins and above his head (Derek has to nudge one closed with his foot before Stiles barrelled into it and broke it off the hinges, which Stiles of course did not notice), and the fridge opens and closes more times than Derek can count.

"You don't organise your fridge," Derek observes when there's a break in Stiles' monologue.

"Ugh, you sound like my dad," Stiles groans. "I don't _need_ to organise it, okay? I know where everything is."

"But your dad-"

"Has to be supervised at all times in the kitchen in case he picks something he's not allowed to eat. Speaking of, would you fetch me a chair from the dining table?"

Derek's eyebrow quirks a little indignantly, but (no surprise, there) he moves to do as Stiles asked (ordered). The barista drags the chair over to the corner of the kitchen, clambers onto it, bundles up a mound of snacks and sweets into his arms, and stretches up to deposit them on top of the cupboards on the wall. He spreads them so they don't poke out over the top of the cupboards before hopping back down to the floor, sending Derek a wide, overenthusiastic grin as he pushes the chair back towards him. Derek huffs, rolling his eyes, but (again - he's pathetic) lifts the chair and brings it back to the dining table.

"You make a wonderful assistant, Derek Hale," Stiles comments, following behind Derek with handfuls of fruit to deposit in a wooden bowl in the middle of the table.

"Not how I expected my morning to go," Derek mutters to himself, standing with his hands on the back of the chair, glancing around the room.

Stiles spins suddenly, hands spread wide and flailing in the air. " _Dude_ , oh my god, I'm so sorry! You have a new truck, you were probably going for a test drive or something when I texted, or-"

"It's Theo's truck," Derek clarifies, unable to stop the smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth.

Stiles freezes, gaping at him. Then he blinks and his hands slap down against his sides, his face going slack. "Oh, uh, Theo, huh? You guys are like," he gestures vaguely, "sharing cars, or whatever? That's cool. That's nice. Yeah. That's uh- that's really.. domestic. Really nice. Yeah."

Derek's head tilts minutely, his eyes twitching. "He let me borrow it to pick up some stuff for the store. I think he went out with Liam last night so he figured he wouldn't need it."

Stiles' eyes narrow, his hands lifting to sit on his hips. He looks like he's trying to solve the mysteries of the universe. "Huh," he mutters. "So, uh- he just loaned you the truck, while he, uh- y'know, he's- he went to-"

"While he went on a date with Liam," Derek confirms with a nod, his voice slow and confused. "I guess he was confident it'd go well and he'd stay the night."

"And _you_ ," Stiles says, lifting his hands to rub them together awkwardly, his hip jutting out and his eyes narrowing questioningly again. "Are fine with that happening?"

Derek frowns, unsure whether Stiles thinks Derek is just overbearingly-overprotective of Theo, or whether he's trying to figure out if _Derek_ is dating Theo. "Who Theo dates is none of my business," Derek responds, pushing off the back of the chair to stand up straight and face Stiles properly. "I'm not interested in him." And he grits his teeth and crosses his arms over his chest, because he's pretty sure he left a hint of an emphasis on " _him_ ", as if there's someone else he _is_ interested in; but if Stiles is going to catch that, Derek should probably maintain their eye contact to avoid any miscommunication (because it's _terrifying_ , and he has _no idea_ if Stiles is even interested in _him_ like that, but if there's the slimmest, most miniscule chance that he _could_ be, then Derek figures he should probably leave some hints of his own interest).

Stiles' face morphs into something like understanding, his eyebrows shooting upwards as he pouts his lips and nods, even throwing in an upturned palm towards Derek. "Right, yeah. Sure. Of course. Not Theo. Just friends. Of course."

Derek feels his eyebrows and mouth twitch upwards, amusement warming his chest. Stiles' eyes flitter over his expression, his own lopsided smile growing on his face. The moment stretches out as Derek's chest warms further, his heart thumping against his ribs, and he feels the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. His fingers twitch around his biceps and his arms loosen slightly from their crossed-over position. Stiles' upturned hand is still hanging in the air between them, as if _asking_ to be held.

But then he rips it away from the No Man's Land between them and he clears his throat, bringing his knuckles up to his jaw to stroke along his stubble. "So, uh, what sorta stuff are you picking up for the store?" he asks.

Derek's arms tighten over his chest again, his gaze flicking around the room without really taking any of it in. "Uh, furniture, mostly. For a reading space."

Stiles perks up. "Oh, that sounds awesome, man. Great idea."

Derek glances at him, nodding his thanks. Stiles shifts on his feet as his hands seek each other out, rubbing them together as if nervous. Derek's gaze is drawn to them, to the stretch of forearm visible beneath the barista's rolled-up, chequered sleeves. The dark hairs stand out against Stiles' pale skin, and there's a hint of muscle flexing as he moves.

"You, uh- do you want- I could help you, y'know, with that. If you wanted. If you need help- _want_ help. Since you helped me. I, uh- I kinda owe you, so. Yeah. I could help."

Derek's gaze flicks back to Stiles' face, noting the pinched skin around his eyes, the upwards twist to his eyebrows, the swipe of his tongue over his bottom lip. "You don't have to," Derek says quietly.

Stiles' eyes seem to analyse Derek's expression. "I, uh- it'd be fun, actually. It sounds fun."

Derek's eyebrows twitch upwards. "You're not working?"

Stiles' face brightens a little, his golden-brown eyes wide (and _hopeful_?) and warm. "Nope," he chirps. "Day off, nothin' to do."

Derek finds himself smiling. "Yeah, alright. Since you owe me."

Stiles grins. "Big time."

* * *

"You expect me to believe that you don't have the next step planned out?" Derek asks, an eyebrow quirked, as he shuts the driver's door behind him.

"I'm gonna go ahead and read between the lines here and take that as a compliment. So, thank you, Derek, for considering me to be someone so strategically gifted, so prepared, and intelligent, and handsome, I'm sure, and intelligent - did I mention prepared?" Stiles replies as he rounds the front of the truck.

"Struggling to think of positive attributes?" Derek smirks. "I guess you don't have many to choose from."

Stiles scoffs as they walk together towards the store, his shoulder brushing Derek's. "I have a _plethora_ of positive attributes, thank you very much - and, by the way, your lack of contention implies that you _do_ , in fact, think that I'm handsome, so no take-backs on that."

Derek decides to conduct his own little experiment, quickening his pace enough to get a couple of steps ahead of Stiles. He turns his head to throw a look over his shoulder at the barista, eyebrows twisting upwards slightly as he allows his gaze to purposefully drift over Stiles' face. "Yeah, you're handsome," he agrees, and he gives him the tiniest of smirks.

Stiles' eyes nearly bug out of his head as he gapes at Derek, and then he lets out a choked yelp when he trips over thin air. His hands claw in front of him for something to grab onto and Derek instinctively reaches out to offer his arm. Stiles latches onto it and nearly drags Derek down to the ground with him, but Derek plants his feet firmly and wraps his fingers around Stiles' elbow to keep him upright.

When Stiles finally gets his feet under him, he stands up to his full height again and turns his still-gaping expression up to Derek's face. Derek's eyebrows twist upwards, his smirk turned into something more mocking than flirtatious.

"Shut up," Stiles snaps petulantly, ripping his hands off of Derek's arm and dusting himself off, as if he got dirty in the first place. "Don't act like that wasn't _exactly_ what you wanted."

"What, you falling for me?"

Stiles splutters indignantly, pushing Derek out of his way as he marches towards the store's entrance. "I don't know who the hell decided to give you so much arrogance today, but it is _not_ working. It doesn't work for you. I like the Derek that was unaware of his insanely-good looks."

Derek tries not to grin as he follows after the barista. "Do you remember ranting about my appearance at me, the night of the fundraiser?"

Stiles halts after they make it through the store's lobby. "Biggest mistake I ever made," he mutters, lifting his hands to his hips as he runs his eyes quickly over the _many_ displays across the shop floor.

Derek's amusement falters when he follows Stiles' gaze. "This is mine," he grunts, crossing his arms over his chest, when he spots an eager employee heading their way.

Stiles throws him a quick frown before realising what Derek is now trying to avoid looking at. "Oh, here we go."

"Hi, there! My name's Jacob. Is there something I can help you with today?" the employee beams, his voice loud and enthusiastic.

"Uh," Stiles says, eloquently.

"We just wanna look around," Derek interjects.

"Are you sure? If you have anything in particular you're looking for, you can let me know and I'll happily show you the various-"

"Actually," Stiles blurts, loud and sudden, startling Jacob mid-spiel. The barista has a hand lifted between them, an awkward expression on his face, and the idea behind his outburst only seems to develop fully after a quick glance at Derek's frowning face. "Y'know, I'd love to see what _beds_ you have in store today. I have absolutely _no idea_ what bed I want, so feel free to go wild, man. I'm all ears." He pats the employee on the shoulder as he turns him around and starts guiding him further into the store. A glance over his shoulder lets Derek give him a tiny smile, and Stiles responds with an exaggerated wink and a lopsided grin.

Taking a calming breath, Derek starts off in the opposite direction, his gaze honing in on all the different armchairs, stools, and regular seats spotted throughout the store. He hasn't got a particular style or colour in mind for the furniture. The way he first shopped for _Books_ was simply browsing through different stores and picking out shit that he liked, regardless of whether it worked together or not. His criteria today is just: _can someone sit on it comfortably for an hour?_ He's not looking for glamour or fashion; he is focused on comfort alone. Although, that doesn't mean he'll go for anything that strikes him as aesthetically unappealing - he's not _that_ open.

He's about half-way round the shop floor when another employee approaches him, and he immediately tenses up.

"Hi there! Can I help you with anything?"

His jaw pries open to deliver a blunt refusal, but the employee speaks again.

"Oh, sorry! I see my colleague is with your partner already. I'll leave you to it."

Derek blinks at the woman's back, a little thrown. He glances across the store to see Stiles listening to Jacob enthusiastically - one arm is crossed over his chest, the other's elbow leaning on his forearm to cradle his chin in his long fingers, a thoughtful frown pulling at his forehead. He seems to be genuinely considering the bed Jacob is telling him about, asking questions and pointing to a bed they must have been looking at earlier as if pretending to compare. And then, when he catches Derek's eyes, he sends him a subtle " _okay_ " hand-signal, another wink, and gestures inquiringly at a bed further round the store - further away from Derek's path, keeping Jacob as far from Derek as he can.

It might be the most thoughtful thing someone's done for Derek in a _long_ time.

Eventually, he comes back around to the entrance, his neck craning to catch a glimpse of Stiles somewhere to indicate that he's ready to leave. The barista had spotted him first, apparently, since he's sauntering towards Derek with a bright smile on his face, Jacob following dutifully behind him.

"Well, _I_ certainly have a lot to think about, Jacob, thank you. You've opened my eyes to the endless variety of bed frames and their ideal uses."

"It's a pleasure to be of assistance," Jacob replies cheerfully. "I just hope your partner felt he got a good enough look at them all on his own - though I'm sure you can fill him in on everything he missed!"

Stiles' eyes go wide again and he falters in his jaunty strides, his gaze snapping to Derek as if terrified that Derek's going to tear Jacob apart for insinuating such a thing. But Derek is now used to people labelling him and Stiles as a couple (and isn't _that_ a sentence he never thought he'd think), so he reaches out to grab the material of Stiles' graphic tee and hauls him across the entrance mat towards him.

"Thanks," Derek tells Jacob, giving him a dismissive nod.

"Keep us in mind when you decide which bed you wanna go for!" Jacob smiles.

"What? Oh, uh, right. Yeah. Sure. Of course. Wouldn't dream of going anywhere else, Jakey-boy. No, sir. We'll come straight back here when we decide. On a bed. To share. 'Cos we're partners," Stiles rambles, chuckling awkwardly.

Jacob's smile falters, and Derek plants a hand on Stiles' shoulder to force him out through the exit. He may or may not be struggling not to spiral about why Stiles reacted so awkwardly.

"Right. No. Yeah. Too much. Good call. Abandon ship. Evacuate the dancefloor. Yup."

"Stiles," Derek says.

"Yeah, boss?"

"Shut up."

"Copy that. Loud and clear. Roger-roger. 10-4."

Derek huffs out an amused breath, letting go of the barista's shoulder. "Calm down before you short-circuit."

"Oh, no, I am _way_ passed that, dude. I short-circuited, like, a _long_ time ago. That bridge has been crossed and _burned_ , no going back. Might as well throw me in the trash and get a newer model, at this point."

Derek opens the passenger door for Stiles during his little rant, and the barista clambers into the truck automatically, without realising. "Seatbelt," Derek says. Then, " _Hands_ ," because Stiles is continuing to ramble about the condition of his mental state, and his hands are being waved around emphatically, often out the open doorway. Finally, Derek has to just grab the barista's wrist and force his hand down into his lap before he can quickly retract his own arm and shut the door.

When he climbs in the driver's side, Stiles cheerfully meets his gaze and gives him a bright smile. "So, anyway, as I was saying. I don't have a next step planned out yet, because it's the _final step_. It has to be something completely awesome, or else the whole thing will have been an enormous waste of time."

Derek blinks at him. "What?"

Stiles gives him a look that says _I'm judging you so hard, right now_. "I'm not finishing the Big Plan full of regret, Derek. It needs to finish with a bang - like, on a high note. Y'know?"

Derek pulls his own seatbelt on and starts the truck, frowning bemusedly. "Sure. Makes sense," he responds, his voice stilted. "No regrets."

Stiles grins. "Exactly. No regrets." He beats out a short, quick rhythm on his thighs. "Also there's only so many words that start with 'Z' and I'm coming up with _zilch_ when I try to make a plan based around them."

The employee at the next store they go to assumes that Derek and Stiles are a couple, too; but Stiles is prepared this time. He hits out with a "Bold of you to assume that I could get with someone like him," and throws Derek an over-the-top eye roll before leading the employee away from him again.

They visit three furniture stores and a rug store before Stiles hijacks the day and demands milkshakes, insisting they'll help get the "interior design juices flowing". He directs Derek to _Shameless Shakes_ , assuring him that they'll get discounted prices because he "has a guy on the inside", and Derek finds himself barely huffing a sigh at the change of plans. He _had_ hoped that he'd have found more furniture by this point; maybe a milkshake will lift his spirits (if Cora could hear him say that, if she could _see him_ sitting in this ridiculously-pastel milkshake joint, she'd laugh until the end of days).

Lydia turns out to be Stiles' man on the inside, and she rolls her eyes and scolds Stiles for spreading false information about discounts and her ability to hand them out to her friends, but Derek definitely pays less than what the price on the board says, and Stiles is unusually quiet throughout the whole exchange.

"She's all bark, no bite," he whispers loudly to Derek when they carry their milkshakes over to a two-seater table.

"I could take you out without breaking a nail, Stilinski, and everyone knows it," Lydia calls from the counter, her head buried in a textbook even as she listens in on their conversation and makes another milkshake for the customer that came in behind them.

"Okay, she's some bark, some bite," Stiles amends, wincing slightly.

Derek smirks at him.

"You ever been here before?" Stiles asks, diving down to suck on his straw while he looks up at Derek, eyebrows raised almost into his hairline.

Derek maintains his smirk and tilts his head, his eyebrows quirking.

The straw pops out of Stiles' mouth noisily when he rips his head away, his expression scrunching. "Right. No. Of course not, why would you?" he says after swallowing his mouthful.

Derek grins and shakes his head, lifting his milkshake to take a sip. Stiles watches him the whole time with a small, excited grin, eyebrows lifting expectantly. "Tastes like diabetes," Derek intones.

Stiles' face falls with irritation. "You're a dick."

Derek chuckles, scratching at his chin. "Yeah, probably." Stiles mocks his laugh petulantly before diving back in for another sip of his own milkshake, and Derek is _well-aware_ of how soft his expression is. "How long have you known each other?"

Stiles swallows his mouthful. "Who? Me and Lyds?"

Derek shrugs.

"Everyone?" Stiles interprets (correctly). "Since school, I guess. I mean, Scott's been my best buddy since we were kids. Like, young kids. But the rest of them only deigned to acknowledge our existence in high school."

"It's nice you've all stayed close."

Stiles scoffs and tosses Derek that lopsided grin of his. "I mean, some of them _tried_ to escape, but I wouldn't let them. Others, like Jackson, I was perfectly content to see walk away. Erica's pros outweigh the cons, despite how snarky she is, and Isaac is, like, hanging by a thread. Always has been. Seems to thrive off of it, the sick bastard."

Derek laughs. "What about Boyd?"

Stiles winces when he takes too big a sip of his milkshake, briefly rubbing at his forehead. "Uh, I'm pretty sure Boyd hated everything about high school - including us. I think Erica managed to talk to him for a while, one time, but it was only while they were lab partners - as soon as the project finished, Boyd just slunk off into his dark corner again."

Derek frowns a little, stirring his straw around his milkshake. Boyd and the others would only have been a couple of years below Derek in school, but he had been too busy focusing on his basketball team and then recovering after the fire to pay any attention to the kids outside his grade. Maybe if he hadn't been so self-absorbed before the fire, he'd have noticed Boyd's isolation.

"He's happy now, though, right?" Stiles says, drawing Derek's gaze back to him. "He was probably smart to wait it out until we'd left school and matured a little." The barista gives him a soft smile, as if realising where Derek's mind had gone.

"Yeah, he seems happier," Derek agrees, drinking again from his milkshake.

"And, uh," Stiles says quietly, lifting his hand to run his knuckles along his stubbled jaw (and Derek's eyes track the movement carefully, wondering what the stubble would feel like against his own fingers). "What about you? You think you're happier? Not that you weren't happy before. Like, I don't mean you were depressed until we barged into your life, or something. Nothing like that. I, uh- I just mean, like- I didn't mean to-"

"Stiles," Derek smiles, shaking his head.

"Right," Stiles chirps, his head bobbing. "Shutting up."

"No, I just-" Derek sighs, leaning back in his chair. He shrugs, wincing slightly at the inherent aversion to being self-reflective buried deep in his bones. "I'm not gonna rip your throat out for asking me a question."

Stiles grins a little abashedly. "So, you _have_ changed a little, then," he muses. "Think back to the first time we met in _Deaton's_ \- if someone told _that_ -you that you'd be sitting in a milkshake joint covered in baby-blues and pinks, drinking an Oreo milkshake with _me_ however many weeks down the line, what do you think you'd have said? Or done, since you were a man of even fewer words back then."

Derek chuckles a little awkwardly, rubbing at his jaw. "Yeah, I'd have struggled to believe that," he admits - even though, when he's really honest with himself, he'd been attracted to Stiles _instantly_ , so he maybe wouldn't have been surprised to have learned that he'd still be interacting with the barista, only at how out of his comfort zone he'd go in order to _have_ that interaction.

There's a strange expression on Stiles' face. There are teasing twitches in his mouth and eyebrows, some crinkles around his eyes, a tongue prodding at his lip cheekily; but he's looking up at Derek from his hunched position, and his eyes are open and attentive, flicking between Derek's with a gentle happiness that makes his stomach flip. They're _such_ a warm, golden, whiskey-hued brown that they threaten to trap Derek in his admiration until he drops dead - and Derek _doesn't care_ , because he'd happily spend his last moments locked in a silent, soft moment with eyes like that. They just seem so rich and deep beyond his comprehension, immeasurably warm even when Stiles is angry or offended or mocking - and they're _focused on him_ , like he's _worthy_ of it, somehow.

"You know your eyebrows say more than your mouth ever does?" Stiles asks, and his tone is teasing, but his voice is quiet and soft.

"I've been told they're expressive," Derek replies, leaning his elbows on the table. He gives Stiles a smile, small and a little hesitant. "You learned the language at all?" He'd _certainly_ have been shocked to see himself being so _soft_ , after so long being as rough-edged and abrasive as he could be.

The corner of Stiles' mouth pulls into his cheek with a kind of boyish charm, the other side of his mouth pulling downwards as if to try and subdue his reaction. "I think I caught on to the basics pretty quickly," he shrugs. "I'm moving onto the more advanced stuff, now. It's hard work."

Derek smiles, his eyebrows quirking.

Stiles grins around his straw. "Yeah, that's right," he answers smugly. "It's worth it, though."

Derek huffs out a quiet laugh, shaking his head. "So, what about you?" he asks. "You think your big plan changed you at all?"

"First of all: you definitely didn't capitalise 'big' and 'plan', there, and that's an issue, alright? It's _Big Plan_ , not _big plan_."

"They literally sound the exact same."

"Alright, well, clearly I can hear a whole other dimension of sound that you can't, so, that's fine, I guess. We'll move past it," Stiles dismisses bitterly. " _Secondly_ : I just wanna make a point of acknowledging that I was completely flawless before I embarked on this journey, and I did not need to change in _any_ way, for anyone. Stiles Stilinski is a _brand_ , a respected and world-renowned brand, and the fans are completely satisfied with how the brand is, and was."

Derek frowns with mock curiosity, tilting his head while he lifts his straw to his mouth.

"And _third_ , you impatient ass: yes, I've probably learned a couple lessons that I should try to incorporate into my lifestyle as I continue to mature and grow into a fully-fledged adult."

"Like what?" Derek prompts.

"Uh, like never to trust the word of Jackson Whittemore," he replies, counting it out on his fingers. "Always perform any morally-ambiguous activities when Deaton is _not_ in the coffeeshop. Don't give a bunch of hired actors your Facebook 'cos they'll definitely spam your page with abuse if you cancel the gig and refuse to pay them. Always splurge on the best weapons pack in an online game, because Aiden is rich, somehow, and you can be _sure_ he's dropped some green for that shit. Only engage real-life enemies physically when Derek's around. Never tell Erica-"

"Wait, what?" Derek scowls indignantly, hurriedly swallowing his mouthful of milkshake.

Stiles blinks innocently. "Never tell Erica that she's-"

" _Stiles_."

The barista groans dramatically. " _Fine_ , sourpuss. Only engage real-life enemies physically when Derek's elsewhere. Don't tell Erica-"

"Oh my god," Derek mutters, lifting a hand to rub at his forehead.

Stiles laughs. "Dude, I'm _kidding_ , c'mon. My life flashed before my eyes that day, man. I don't wanna go through that again. I'll only ever engage someone physically if it's, like, to defend someone's honour or save their life or something."

"How noble," Derek intones, letting his hand fall back to the table.

"Seriously, though. I've learned that I need to really try to subdue my impulses, sometimes. Even though they're like.. ingrained in me. A little bit. A lot."

Derek's lips press gently together, taking a breath to give him time to formulate a compassionate response.

"Although," Stiles barrels on, wincing. "I _am_ considering joining the force. Y'know, following my pop's footsteps and everything. I'm a pretty good detective, actually. I helped solve some of his cases. I wasn't allowed to look at the files, obviously, but.. I dunno how they ended up in my room, right? Ghosts, probably. He couldn't really argue too much when he realised I was right, so."

Despite the slight twinge in his chest at the thought of Stiles being close to danger in any way, Derek smiles. "You'd be a good cop."

"Yeah, I know, right? I'm just selfless like that, y'know? Always lookin' out for the little guy, just wanting to help everybody out. Friendly neighbourhood Stiles," he grins, shooting a finger-gun at Derek with a wink. " _Although_ , I did also get swept up into this phase our school went through for a semester when they tried to peddle this green initiative. I was, like, out in the parking lot with signs, and there were stalls and flyers and shit. It was awesome, dude. We felt like we were changing the world. I think I'd be a pretty good activist, too."

Derek smiles over the table at him, unable to look at anything other than the bright, lively warmth in Stiles' eyes. The barista could be literally _anything_ he wanted to be, Derek's sure. He's got the passion and enthusiasm down to an art, the desire to learn and do better. It's so admirable it makes Derek's chest swell - even if he has no right to feel proud.

"What about you? You hit the jackpot with _Books_ , or is there something else on the horizon for Derek Hale?"

Derek drops his gaze to his milkshake, suddenly a little uncomfortable. "I dunno," he mutters. "My store's the best thing I've ever done." He rubs the back of his neck and chances a look up at Stiles, catching the patient and interested look on the barista's face. Derek smiles. "I always hoped I'd be able to do more with Satomi, when I was ready," he admits.

Stiles' expression brightens even more. "Like, with the orphanage?" he clarifies. "Yeah, dude, that'd be awesome. You'd be great. I mean, I saw you at the fundraiser talking to that kid - he was one kid one minute, and a completely different kid the next, just 'cos you spoke to him. There's definitely something there, man."

Derek smiles softly, a little bittersweet. "No, he was the same kid the whole time," he says quietly.

Stiles is silent for a moment, but Derek can feel his gaze. Then, "You saw it in him, right?"

Derek looks up again, his eyebrows twisting upwards a little as his shoulders shrug shallowly.

Stiles' face softens even more, his eyes so _gentle_ and _caring_. "I get it," he murmurs.

The barista's hand is laid on the table, just a few inches away from Derek's, and his fingertips are _tingling_ with the craving to reach for it. He wants to slip his fingers under Stiles' palm, stroke his thumb over the back of Stiles' hand and pull it close, count the freckles splattered over his skin.

But, no.

"Are you guys on a date?"

Derek nearly flinches. His gaze snaps to the counter where Danny is swapping places with Lydia, frowning over at Derek and Stiles with wary confusion.

" _And_ we're done here," Stiles sing-songs quietly to himself, pushing his chair back to stand up. "Would you concur? Great. Excellent. Fantastic. Let's get the hell outta here, then." He swipes his milkshake from the table and starts to stride through the shop to the doorway, leaning in close to the counter to hiss something at Danny.

Derek picks up his own milkshake and follows after the barista, giving Danny a questioning expression when he sees the young man's contained delight in the grin he tries to hide.

He hopes Danny can't see it on his face that his heart is twisting worriedly at the thought of Stiles being so pissed off by that assumption.

* * *

After they finish their milkshakes, Stiles insists on them popping into a thrift store instead of another chain, assuring Derek that the employees don't interfere as much as the rest they've dealt with today. Derek had never thought about using second-hand furniture before, and he ends up regretting his complaints when he sees the kind of things the thrift stores are selling. Nothing too flashy or pretentious - just items with history and character. Suddenly, the back of Theo's truck starts to fill up.

They stop at a parking lot to visit a taco food truck, and they eat standing against the truck since Derek has absolutely _no doubt_ in his mind that Stiles would manage to spill something on Theo's upholstery. Then they visit a paint store, because Derek should "definitely put a new coat of paint on the coffee table" they picked up, and a toy store, too, since "there might be some kids sittin' around while their parent or guardian reads a book, dude". He picks up more than he thought he would, but he's _happy_ with the choices, and Stiles' pride about being so helpful is amusing as much as it is aggravating.

But, eventually, their little adventure has to come to an end, because Theo needs his truck to get home tonight, and Derek needs to drop everything off at _Books_ before that. He pulls up outside Stiles' house without having needed directions this time, and Stiles lingers in the passenger seat to finish his story about the time he and Scott thought they'd found a dead body in the woods, but it turned out to be a legless mannequin.

Derek is shuffled round to face Stiles better, his knee leaning up against the middle console. His left hand is still resting on the steering wheel, but his right is comfortably draped over the middle console - _right_ next to Stiles', as it has been for the last fifteen minutes. Stiles is behaving a little abnormally, in that only _one_ of his hands is gesturing emphatically as he narrates his memory of the fateful night of the Murdered Mannequin. His other hand, the one next to Derek, has twitched as if desperate to join the other, but it has remained right there, a hair's-breadth from Derek's, no matter how dramatic the storytelling got. And maybe it incites a spark of hope in Derek's chest.

"Well, this was pretty fun," Stiles sighs contentedly after a moment of companionable silence. "For repaying a favour, anyway. Thanks again for that, man. You seriously did me a solid. I'm gonna eat so much ice cream tonight."

Derek smirks, and he feels somewhat emboldened by that spark of hope. "Maybe next time you don't have to make me your last resort," he shrugs, gesturing his right hand. It drops back to the console a little closer to Stiles' than it was before.

"Yeah?" Stiles muses, quirking his eyebrows, his eyes dancing across Derek's face. "Well, maybe I hadn't actually asked anyone else before I texted you."

Derek's smirk falters, his expression loosening with gentle surprise. Stiles is watching him with a face that's borderline- _vulnerable_ , open and exposed. He looks nervous, and shy, but also hopeful and happy and his _eyes_ , fuck. Derek has never felt his body and heart crave someone so achingly before. It feels like there's something _pulling_ at the centre of his chest, pulling him to lean across the console towards Stiles, and the longer he resists it, the more _empty_ he feels.

Stiles must slip his hand closer to Derek's, because suddenly he feels the soft press of skin against the side of his palm, a pinky brushing up against his own, and a streak of pure, blazing _heat_ surges up his arm, leaving goosebumps in its wake. Derek's pinky flinches a little, but it lifts up and slowly stretches over to gently lay on top of Stiles', tucking around the thin digit. Derek's heart is thumping erratically in his ears, in his throat, in his _toes_ , and he watches Stiles lick his lips, his Adam's apple bobbing in his throat.

But then a light switches on in the window behind Stiles and Derek sees Stilinski's silhouette move through the house, approaching the window. He frowns gently, using _every single ounce_ of his willpower to pull his hand away from Stiles' again. "Uh, looks like your dad's home," he says, his voice barely above a whisper.

Stiles blinks, frowning, and then turns to look out the window. He lifts a limp hand to greet his dad when the Sheriff peers out the window at the truck outside his house, and then turns back to Derek with a somewhat awkward expression. "I guess I should make sure he hasn't found my stash," he mutters.

Derek can only stare at him, his brain screaming at him for ruining the moment.

"Uh, yeah. So, uh, thanks. Again. For the ride. And letting me tag along. That, uh- that was.. yeah. Thanks." He purses his lips, gives Derek an uncomfortable nod, and then turns to open the door and hop out of the truck.

Derek's brain suddenly boots up again when the door slams shut and Stiles goes to walk away. "It wasn't bold of him, by the way," he says loudly, almost wincing at how _dumb_ he sounds. Stiles turns to look through the window at him, and Derek hits the button to roll it down. "It wasn't bold of him. To assume that."

He almost calls it a night and just drives off out of sheer embarrassment; but Stiles gazes up at him still, and his expression is loose, as if disbelieving. He knows what Derek's talking about. "Yeah?" he asks.

Derek nods, frowning. "Yeah. You, uh- you really helped me out today. You made it fun. So, thank you, Stiles."

The barista smiles up at him, the disbelieving curve still pulling at his lips. "You're welcome, Derek."

Derek smiles back at him, glad that he'll at least not go home kicking himself about letting Stiles walk away without seeing that smile again. "Good luck coming up with the last step. I hope it's good enough to avoid any regret."

Stiles beams at him. "You're gonna regret giving Scott your number thinking that he wouldn't share it with me immediately, despite you telling him not to. I'm gonna bounce _all_ my ideas off of you, man. I hope you're ready."

Derek laughs. "See you later, Stiles."

"I mean it! You'll have, like, thirty messages by the time you get home tonight!" Stiles calls as Derek starts to pull away.

He laughs again, and his grin doesn't fade until he's a few blocks away from Stiles' house. He can't remember the last time he's _smiled_ and _laughed_ so much in one day - probably not since before the fire. And Stiles probably doesn't even _realise_ the significance of that.

* * *

Derek's brow scrunches with concentration and his head tilts to the left. Boyd, as intuitive as ever, shuffles to his right on the other side of the rug, watching Derek's face attentively. Derek's brow twitches upwards and his head straightens again, so Boyd nods and lays his side of the rug down on the wooden floor. Silently, they move to an aisle each and pick up an armchair.

Derek is glad that, despite his sudden social skills around Boyd and the _Deaton's_ crew, he and Boyd can still enjoy a companionable silence, can still communicate without words when neither are feeling up to flexing that social muscle. Boyd's stoic quiet is reassuring to Derek, and a reminder that who Derek is at his core hasn't really changed in the last few months. He'd had a moment of panic, about a week ago, when he compared his behaviours now to how they had been this time last year, and he had worried that he'd been _turned_ _into_ something he didn't recognise, someone he never wanted to be - _forced_ to behave in a way that allowed him to fit in better with a very specific social circle.

After his day with Stiles, his worries had been eased away. He hasn't been forced into changing anything about himself; Boyd and the others have just _brought_ this long-forgotten side of him out into the sunlight again. They had barged into his life, yes, and presumed these roles of 'friends' without really blinking an eye or asking for permission, but the fact is that they have actually _earned_ that title in the last few months. They never asked him to change, never told him to behave differently - hell, Scott had been inviting Derek to hang out before they'd ever connected on a level other than "Hey, here's your order!", "Thanks." They had seen him at his most bitter and antagonistic, and they hadn't been deterred in the slightest; they had just continued to coax this sociable side of him out through the smoke and the ashes and the grief and back into the light of day.

And when Derek looks over at Boyd carefully considering the placement of the armchair he's carrying, taking a genuine interest in the aesthetic of Derek's store, Derek can't find it in himself to feel anything other than _gratitude_.

Until the bell above the door tinkles and a voice batters down the aisles towards them.

"Good morning to this fine establishment and its enigmatic, reticent, _dashing_ employees!"

Boyd places his armchair down at the edge of the rug. "He's like a walking thesaurus," he mutters.

Derek huffs out an amused breath as he straightens up to peer down the store. "Morning, Stiles," he says, lifting a hand.

The barista is in a plain burgundy t-shirt and jeans, his hair thick and fluffy and brushed away from his face, his jaw still lined with a short stubble - and Derek's heart thuds with painful fondness at the sight of him. "Hey, Derek," Stiles replies, grinning lopsidedly as he holds the door open.

"Stiles," Theo grunts on the other side of the door, his arms full of boxes. "I'll drop this shit on your toes if you don't open the door wider."

Stiles blinks and whips his gaze to the doorway, eyes wide with surprise. "Oh, right, yeah. Sorry, dude." He steps back and pulls the door open fully so that Theo can fit through the space.

"Derek, man, where do you want this stuff?" Theo asks.

Derek squeezes past the furniture in his aisle and strides up towards the counter to take a couple of boxes from Theo's arms. "These aren't parts of the stall, right? They can go in the staffroom just now. Stiles, there's a doorstop behind you."

Between the three of them, they make quick work of taking everything from Theo's truck into the shop. Stiles chatters animatedly the entire time, while Theo rolls his eyes or snarks at him or makes comments to Derek about how it's "way too early for his bullshit"; and Derek agrees that this amount of conversation, an hour and a half before _Books_ even opens, is criminal - but, luckily, Stiles is in more of a storytelling mood than a conversational mood, and Derek finds that _listening_ isn't half as bad as _contributing_ , especially when it's Stiles' voice.

"Alright, who's gonna help me build the stall?" Stiles asks, his hands on his hips, as he stands next to the three pre-built segments of the stall.

Theo gives him a look. "You don't need help," he retorts, gesturing at the segments. "And Deaton is only paying me to deliver this shit, not to spend more time with you than necessary, so."

Stiles rolls his eyes, shooing Theo with a hand. "Fine, asshole. You can run back to HQ and your little dork boyfriend."

"Don't call him that," Theo warns flatly.

"What, dork?"

"Yeah."

"But he _is_ one."

"I know."

"So?"

" _So_ , that doesn't mean you can call him that."

"Oh, I see. It's a 'he's a dork but he's _my_ dork so only _I_ get to call him that' sorta situation, huh?"

"Exactly," Theo smirks.

"Y'know, I knew him before you did. He's our baby. Scott is literally his dad."

"Don't give a shit, Stilinski. If you hurt his feelings, I'll punch you in the throat so hard it'll shut you up permanently."

Derek's amusement falters enough to take a step between the two of them. "Alright, settle down."

Theo's lips press together as his head tilts, lifting a judgemental eyebrow at Derek. "Protective much?" he asks, his voice low and quiet.

Derek crosses his arms over his chest, his eyebrows pinching as a wry smirk pulls at his mouth. "You wanna run back to the threat you just made?"

A hand suddenly splays across his shoulder blade and a huff of air brushes his ear, his neck bursting with goosebumps. "Yeah, by the way - _not_ very intimidating, Raeken. I've seen you go all soft and mushy around Liam, you're not fooling anyone."

Derek rolls his eyes. "Not helping, Stiles," he mutters.

"What, you think I wouldn't still beat your ass to hell and back?" Theo challenges.

"Enough," Derek bites out, exasperated. "It's too early for this shit. Go back to _Deaton's_ , Theo. Thanks for the help."

Theo smirks, quirking his eyebrows knowingly at Derek again, but he snatches the keys to the truck off the countertop and turns to leave the store.

"Never stood a chance," Stiles comments with smug amusement, his body heat pulling away from Derek's back with a couple of firm pats to his shoulder blade.

"You're a danger to yourself and everyone around you," Derek sighs, turning to help Stiles assemble the stall.

Deaton had surprisingly agreed to set up a link with _Books_ , per Stiles' suggestion. Derek had told him that he wasn't interested in taking any sort of payment for the set-up, that the potential increase in customers would be enough compensation (and he had hoped that it would allow for him to see more of Stiles, but that wasn't mentioned for obvious reasons). Deaton had agreed to the terms, happy to support another local business and hopefully draw in some more customers to his coffee shop due to the increased exposure, so they had agreed on trialling a small stall in _Books_ with one of the baristas. Deaton had reasoned that Scott, his most trusted employee, was busy supervising Liam still, and had almost picked Erica to man the stall; but realised at the last minute that Stiles, while more clumsy and prone to distraction, _also_ distracted Scott more than was reasonable. So, he decided to split the responsibility between Stiles and Erica - one would man the stall for three days, then the other would come in for the next three days. Theo had been hired to transport the coffee ingredients and assortment of muffins and cakes between the coffee shop and Derek's store to keep up a healthy supply, and they discussed the possibility of Stiles taking bigger orders like paninis and soups, with Theo running a sort of delivery service during the day.

With that and the new reading space, Derek is pretty confident that _Books_ is going to become more popular - and that's a _good_ thing, even if he wants to throw up a wall and recede so deep inside himself he can _hear_ his cells working, just to avoid talking to customers.

"You decide on a title for the last step?" Derek asks once they've taken a step back to admire the assembled stall.

Stiles grins at the wooden structure, at the sign hanging at the top and the maroon panels lining the front. "Oh, yeah," he replies. "Step Twenty-Six: Zero Regrets."

Derek smirks over at him. "Creative."

Stiles gives him a short, playful glare. "Shut up. I couldn't think of anything else to _do_ , and, y'know, we'd talked about ending the Big Plan without any regrets, and I just-" he clicks his tongue and gestures at the stall. "This just feels like the perfect thing to end it on. After all the drama and failures and mistakes, _this_ actually feels like something we did right, and I'm proud of it. So, it makes it all worth it, you know?"

Derek's smirk softens when Stiles looks at him. "Yeah," he nods.

Stiles' smile is soft, too, and Derek's chest tightens a little, as if his fondness for the barista is expanding past his ribs and pushing at his skin. It spreads down through his body, flooding into his fingers and making them twitch with a _need_ to reach out, to hold and pull close and protect and marvel, and he grits his teeth against the urge. Stiles' eyes flit across Derek's face, and he suddenly feels raw and exposed, and a heat blooms in his chest at the terrified hope that floods him suddenly - maybe Stiles can _see_ Derek's feelings in his expression, maybe he'll _realise_ without Derek having to agonise over the best way to communicate it verbally (and inevitably fucking it up), and the idea is somehow both horrible and wonderful at the same time.

Because he still isn't sure if Stiles reacts the way he does to Derek because he's _physically_ -interested, or really, actually, _interested_ -interested. Emotionally. Romantically. Whatever. Stiles' energy and mannerisms are too chaotic and sporadic to be able to interpret on a deeper level than what Derek is currently managing (barely).

He figures he should probably wait another couple of months, try and get a better sense of the young man, gather more information and investigate a little deeper, before he does anything stupid like _make a move_. Stiles may give off the energy of a panicked and tortured bisexual, but he's also the most _alive_ person that Derek has ever met, the most emphatic and multilayered and _chaotic_ , and that threatens to up-end any assumptions Derek's made over the last few months. He needs to get to know the barista better before he can feel confident in his analysis, at which point he'll either have to give up all hope of _ever_ being a romantic candidate for Stiles, or he'll have to then start the arduous process of figuring out whether he's anything more than eye-candy to Stiles and whether he'll make an absolute idiot of himself if he ever worked up the courage to make a move.

The turmoil he's undergone in the few moments Stiles has been standing there, reading the language of Derek's expression, leaves his shoulders slumped and his jaw clenched. He clears his throat and nods one last time at the stall before he turns and walks back down the aisles to the reading space Boyd is still organising. (And he wonders if there ever _will_ be a day that Derek will make a move on Stiles, because the thought is _terrifying_ , and he feels painfully undeserving of the possibility, realistic or not, of ever dating the barista.)

* * *

The morning of Stiles' third day working the stall in _Books_ , Derek has noticed a strange energy around the young man. He's been particularly fidgety today, particularly talkative, and Derek has spied him groaning to himself a few times as if in exasperation or anguish - he's not sure what sort of scale Stiles is working with today. Derek has tried to approach him, asking open-ended questions and engaging in discussions about favourite books or genres, but Stiles' expression seems to become more contorted and pained the longer Derek talks to him, so he has retreated (some might say with his tail between his legs, what with all the dejected energy around him) to the aisles of the store to organise his stock and leave Stiles be. He even threw a questioning frown at Boyd after he'd stood at the counter for ten minutes near Stiles, but had only received an identical expression in reply.

He's on the verge of texting Scott, wondering if there's perhaps some kind of protocol the others have concocted after years of being so close to Stiles and familiar with his behaviours, when a customer enters the store. He actually _willingly_ seeks them out in an attempt to distract himself, showing them around the aisles and pulling certain books out as recommendations; but _now_ he can feel Stiles' whiskey eyes following his every move, and it's setting him on edge. When he glances over at the barista, he sees an unfamiliar expression on his face, an unrecognisable depth to his eyes, and Derek's voice cracks suddenly mid-sentence, confusion twisting his eyebrows even as dread claws his heart - because is Stiles _fed up of him_? Is that what this new face is? An earnest, justified _regret_ that he'll be spending three days every week in Derek's store, in Derek's company?

Maybe Derek should semi-retire and only work the three days Erica's in. Or he could leave everything to Boyd and say goodbye to Beacon Hills forever.

He trails after the customer as she wanders up to the counter to pay, struggling to avoid eye contact with the barista in the corner, whose hands are braced on the small counter of his stall as if facing some kind of grievous decision. He has to physically turn away and move a few steps down the aisle again to escape the tension in the air, imagined or not.

"God, I'm starving - do you guys know any good places to eat around here?" the woman asks.

Derek sees an opportunity and jumps on it, twisting on his feet to face her again. "Try _Deaton's Dream Beans_ ," he smiles politely, his muscles straining. "Best coffee joint in town." He just wants to prove to Stiles that he's _good_ , that he's a _friend_ , at the very least (and, _fine_ , yes, okay, he genuinely believes that _Deaton's_ is the best Beacon Hills has to offer).

The woman grins at him and nods. "Okay, great! Thanks." She takes the receipt from Boyd and happily leaves the store.

Derek sees Boyd glance between him and Stiles, quirk an eyebrow, and turn to walk towards the staff room. He even pushes the door over behind himself.

Derek's eyebrows furrow a little at the strange behaviour, at the quiet tension still seizing the air in the store, and his gaze searches for Stiles as if on instinct. He finds a pair of wide eyes staring back at him, a slack jaw and parted lips communicating shocked disbelief. For a moment, Derek forgets the angst he's suffered all morning. He can't help the amusement bubbling in his chest, nor the grin that easily spreads across his face, eyebrows quirking cheekily - because Stiles' expression is amusingly endearing and _he_ put it there and that gives him a small rush of euphoria.

But Stiles' expression crumples hopelessly. "Aw, screw it," he mutters. Derek's grin falters, his eyebrows pinching with confusion and dread, but then Stiles is skirting the edge of his stall and marching towards him. "Don't punch me. Don't punch me. Don't punch me," the barista is chanting quickly under his breath, and it's only when his whiskey eyes drop lower on Derek's face and his head tilts minutely and his hands lift from his sides to reach out, that Derek finally clicks.

His mind seems to process everything at half-speed, his heartbeat tripping over itself, but his body moves swiftly when he steps forward to meet Stiles, one hand reaching to cup the side of his head while the other latches onto his hip. Stiles' fingers bury themselves in Derek's shirt and _pull,_ as if Derek's at risk of floating away (which is ridiculous, because he wants to be as close to Stiles as physically possible). But then their faces meet and Derek is kissing Stiles - finally, _finally_ \- with a burning hunger and his fingers are lost in Stiles' _stupid_ fluffy hair and he can feel Stiles' stubble scratching at his own and his body is on fire and he feels so dizzy that he thinks there actually _might_ be a risk of him floating away.

His hand moves from Stiles' hip to wrap his arm tightly around his waist, crowding him in harder against his chest in an attempt to anchor himself to the barista, and one of Stiles' hands untangles from his shirt to scrabble up his chest, over his collarbone, and his nails scrape up the back of Derek's neck (and his knees nearly _buckle_ at the sensation) until his fingers are burying in the hair at the back of Derek's head.

Derek can feel the soft, plump skin of Stiles' lips caught in his own, feels the puff of breath from Stiles' nose against his skin, the almost- _frantic_ clutch of Stiles' fingers in his shirt and hair, and it nearly _ruins_ him. Stiles' elbow is digging into his ribs, their hips flush, the weight of his arm comfortable on Derek's shoulder, and Derek's fingers press harder into Stiles' side. They're both breathing short, harsh puffs of air out of their noses, but neither seem to be inhaling properly, their chests too restricted to make room for the needed oxygen, and Derek wonders if people would understand if he died from suffocation just to _hold on a little longer._

But he wants the chance to do this again (and again and _again_ ), and he'd feel pretty bad if he let Stiles suffocate, too, so he slowly tucks his chin in closer to his chest, and Stiles does the same, pressing his lips harder against Stiles' one last time before he opens them and draws away to heave in a breath. Derek's fingers loosen in Stiles' hair enough to slide his palm down over the barista's ear and his thumb can stroke gently (reverently) over Stiles' cheekbone, and he leans his forehead against Stiles', tilting it at a slight angle so that Stiles' breath is puffing against his cheek instead of his lips (because it really _was_ almost enough to make him dive back in and risk suffocation). He can feel his heart battering in his chest, his blood pulsing _loudly_ in his ears, and he has the startling realisation that he hasn't felt so _alive_ in years _._

Every single sense is _flooded_ with Stiles - his warmth, his softness, his dumb cologne, his ragged breaths, the shape of him outlined in Derek's mind by touch, the taste of him on Derek's lips when his tongue swipes across them. He has never felt so _consumed_ by someone, so enveloped and sheltered, and his fingers curl into his palm to draw the material of Stiles' shirt into his grip. He _doesn't want to let go._

Stiles' breath shakes on his next exhale, then he inhales and his chest pushes his arm further into Derek's chest. "You didn't punch me," he murmurs, his voice low and scratchy and breathless. Derek opens his eyes and finds Stiles already watching him, his pupils dilated amongst a bright, golden-brown framed by fluttering, dark eyelashes (and since when were his eyelashes that _long_?).

Derek's eyebrow quirks, the skin of his forehead bunching slightly where it is still pressed against Stiles'. "Still got a few hours left," he responds, and he can hear the breathlessness in his own voice, the hoarse rumble of it vibrating from his chest up his throat. His eyes flutter shut when Stiles' fingers sift through his hair, gently tugging at his scalp, but he forces them open again because Stiles had started to grin and he _can't miss that._

" _Zero_ regrets," Stiles beams, and it's the most beautiful thing Derek has ever seen.

He lifts his chin again to catch Stiles' lips in another kiss, his hand gently supporting Stiles' head when he pushes in at a deeper angle. Every soft draw of their lips sends a sharp, electric zing through every cell in his body, his mind completely honed in on the sensation even as it threatens to vacate his head entirely. His stomach is swooping, his heart rapidly hammering against his ribs, and everything right down to his _toes_ is tingling with unadulterated relief and contentment.

"Just to be clear," Stiles breathes out with a wince when he pulls back enough to make eye-contact again. Derek's heart stutters, waiting to fall off the ledge. "I'm a _go hard or go home_ kinda guy, so, y'know, I am _all_ in - like, just.. as _far in_ as you can possibly get in this situation. I'd like to do this forever. With you. Exclusively. Please. For the love of _god_ , please."

Derek can only grin and nod wordlessly, and Stiles' answering grin as he leans in again to kiss him is intoxicating. Stiles' other hand slides up over Derek's chest to loop his arm around his neck and Derek lets his own brush down Stiles' side until he can curl his other arm around his waist, too. Their bodies press together from hips to chests, their legs tangled together in such a way that he doesn't know where he ends and Stiles begins, and Derek knows without a doubt, without a single smidgeon of dismay, that he is well and truly _lost_ on this guy _._

And to think, he had almost thrown in the towel when he'd been interviewing for a shop assistant, had almost called it a day and saved himself any more hardship before Boyd had walked through his door. If he had, then he'd never have been worn down by Boyd, by Scott, by Erica and Isaac, by _Stiles_ , and he'd have continued his life half-lived, oblivious to the possibility of being resurrected through exasperation and aggravation into a living, breathing, _feeling_ human again. So, _yeah,_ Derek thinks, with a warm, infuriating, beautiful, idiotic Stiles crushed against his chest, _he really has a lot of fucking time for Vernon Boyd._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really want to do a Thiam story next, covering seasons 6a and 6b and then going beyond, but I'm gonna work on that in the background while I focus on my Jessica Jones x Tony Stark story, Untethered. It needs a butt-load of brain power (which I probably do not actually have) and if I start posting a Thiam story, I'm gonna end up neglecting Untethered again. But keep an eye out for it in the future! Maybe give me a lil subscribe or something🥺 thanks again and love you all! Feel free to leave any and all feedback xx


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